Districts of Hunger
by Phoenix Refrain
Summary: This is the story of the end of the Rebellion and the very first Hunger Games.
1. Prologue

_Welcome to Districts of Hunger. Sorry this author note might be a little long. Couple of things though. I've been working on this weeks to get this done. This is the story of how the first rebellion ended and the story of the FIRST Hunger Games. I don't think it's ever been done quite like this before—so please stick around._

_This is just the prologue, a teaser if you will. There's not going to be a lot of in-depth action of the rebellion (some flashbacks). The prequel that details how the rebellion fails will come out later—Districts of Rebellion._

_This is going to be…graphic. Not OMG graphic, more…just depressing. You're warned. My PM box is open for consoling._

_Final thing, first update is on the 18th. This is just a TEASER. After this, there will be two updates a week._

_May the odds—Who are we kidding? They're _not_ in your favour._

_**It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!**_

_**Patrick Henry**_

For weeks, we waited and listened. We had this planned for a long time, we could wait a little longer. All we had to do was wait for the sign that said now is the time. It would symbolize that now was the time to attack, to take back our Districts from Panem. They would know that we are no longer weak, no longer willing slaves for them.

They don't expect us to rebel, only to bow under their iron-will. They've pushed and pushed us until finally they have pushed us too far. I feel my mother's hand on my shoulder as we wait inside the building with what weapons we have. The smell of sweat and fear is strong. I keep wiping my hands as I grip the axe in my hand tighter.

I was born a slave, I will not die a slave. For fifteen years, I was in their servitude. Today, my fifteenth birthday is the day we will wrench our freedom from their hands—all thirteen districts will rebel and come together. How can they stop us if we band together.

A sound wafts on the cooling evening air, a four note whistle that signifies the birth of a Rebellion.


	2. How It Began

_****_**Here it is! The long-awaited beginning. I have a lot of stuff planned for this game, and the ending...is not anything you expect.**

**Updates will be on Saturdays and Wednesdays. Reviews help me to stick to the schedule. XD The missing two years are part of a prequel that I'll announce the date of later, but right now they don't play a fundamental part, only alluded to. But you will find out, just later.**

**I'm not Suzanne Collins but these are my characters since I made them all up.**

**Enjoy!**

_**Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn't be? War, terror, disease. There were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense. Fear got the best of you, and in your panic you turned to the now high chancellor, Adam Sutler. He promised you order, he promised you peace, and all he demanded in return was your silent, obedient consent.**_

_**V in V for Vendetta**_

**__**_Two years later..._

There was a time long ago where a place known as North America existed. People were free there or so they say. But that was long ago; maybe its more legend than history. Really is there much difference?

The point is that it didn't last. People were foolish, privileged…and well, they didn't see it coming until it came. A great war, the latest war to end all wars—and for awhile it kind of did. Some said it was payback for sins they committed; some said it was because they were too concerned with comfort. The moral is that it was destroyed because they weren't paying attention to what they should have been—the important rather than the trivial. But that wasn't enough punishment for them.

After the latest war to end all wars there came droughts, disasters…anything you can imagine, it came and it conquered. Everyone was alone and separate—weak. That's when the idea of Panem came about. I'm not sure about the name really. It's supposed to mean bread, a promise of food and health—an end to hunger and struggle. But that name is ironic now. I live in Panem, but the place it's named for is not the place I know. There is no plenty here, there is no freedom. All of that was left in the ruins of North America. After our devastation we weren't interested in seeking out what other continents survived—we didn't search for them and they didn't search for us. Most finally concluded that we were all that's left of the world…but I think somewhere out there another country is thinking the same thing. But over all, its better not to meet—not to find anyone else we can fight with, because that's all we do anyways.

Panem rose to power and with it came a President, not like the former President of North America—the United States, but a dictator parading as someone kind. He promised my people full bellies and we listened because we were _hungry_. Famine, drought, and hardships make you know the meaning of hunger and my people sold their souls to feel safe.

Hunger can do terrible, terrible things.

Panem became divided into fourteen sections—the Capitol and thirteen districts, kind of like the original thirteen colonies in the United States. Only instead of freely passing between the borders we were forced to have passes to do that now. You would only be granted access to another district if you were useful there, if not you may live and die in one district. Before long, we grew apart—thought about ourselves as distinct and separate people and that's where the problem began. When we were divided we were made weak. Things got worse, and then we had neither strength nor allies to rebel against the Capitol.

…

When I was born, people were tired and hungry. Little did we know that we knew nothing yet of hunger.

We were tired of being divided—segregated to keep us weak, so we rebelled against the "glorious" Capitol when I was fifteen. But we weren't prepared as we should have been or as organized. We fought, we died, and then—when we saw what they had done to District Thirteen, all hope was lost. How many more of us would they decimate to ensure the war stopped and they won? Would there even be enough of us left alive to carry on?

It is two weeks since, they destroyed thirteen. We can still see the smoke from where we live in District 12. Some closer to the border of it say they could even feel the bombs rocking the earth. The ash travels here on the wind…I want to see it, because I won't believe it's real otherwise but the others say it's too dangerous.

I listen to my father, my mother dead in the rebellion, and grandmother talk—leader's of the rebellion in the place once known as District 12. The orders have come, the decision has been made…We're giving up.

We have lost the war.

…

I leave the conference in anger, storming away from my father who is calling after me, "Emera Dayton!"

I turn around to him, my grey eyes blazing. "You want me to tell my men that we've given up? I'd rather die than be a slave again!" I spit out. The taste of freedom, I've had was sweet. I don't want to go back to how things were. I have lived for two years as free as my ancestors who came to this place fleeing iron rule thousands of years ago.

"This is the only way Emera. If we keep fighting now…there won't be anything left. We have to bide our time." His grey eyes look back into mine, trying to make me see something important.

I keep glaring at him. My mother would understand, she was the fiery one but he was the one that was calm and cool enough to lead us. "Maybe it's better to be extinct," I turn on my heel before he can say another word and storm away.

I gather my men together around the fire and pull back my long black hair. I don't want to give this speech—I don't want to say these words. But it's over. I have to defend a decision I don't agree with for the sake of my father, for the sake of my people.

I look around at the faces staring at me, my eyes fall on Cristoff and he knows what's going on. He knows me very well, every single inch of my skin—my every thought, just as well as I know him. It pains me to know that he does understand that our dream of a future—of kids who would not be slaves has faded. We have to leave that for the next generation and hope that it comes true.

I am this groups leader at only seventeen, graced with my mother's vibrancy and some of my father's planning skills—a good combination that could be dangerous if I perfected it. But at times I'm too angry, too driven to listen to even my own reason. My voice breaks over them, "The war is over. We are…surrendering." Voices rise in anger, some hang their head in defeat but I quiet them. "We can't forget who they are and what they have done to us. We will add to our list of grievances now, and we will bide our time. It may take a thousand years—but our children will once again be free. And we will keep fighting; keep edging forward until we can do that. But the time isn't now. We just have to wait."

They're angry. I know they are, for I'm angry too. "We can't keep fighting…If they do to us what they've done to Thirteen…there won't be anything we are fighting for anymore, because we won't live through it and neither will they." Because there is something worth fighting for…If I had it my own way, I'd choose death instead of going back to how we were. Maybe in the next war there'd be someone like me—someone who'd tell them to kill us or surrender to us—it's the only way they can stop us.

Silence. Absolute, heart-wrenching silence. The war is over.

…

We are forced to sign a treaty of treason, proclaiming what we have done is wrong. In exchange, all of those who rebelled are spared and we agree to be loyal to the Capitol. But even as we sign it, as they sign it—we all know it's like putting a cork in a bottle. One day, they'll shake us hard enough and the top will fly off and every feeling of resentment and anger will bubble forth and overtake them.

But they have plans for that.

Fences go up between the Districts that are higher than the others ever were. Where once we were allowed in the woods in groups and to travel with work visas—it's all been taken away. We will live and die in one District. But it's not the worst; we learn what our hunger has brought us. The Capitol of Panem—who had once promised us milk and honey and bread for all our days is proclaiming that we will be allowed flour only if children between ages twelve and eighteen take something called tessarae. No one knows what tessarae even is.

The conditions have worsened in such a short time that it's impossible not to take it unless you're rich or favourable to the Capitol. It's mushy and gross, but it is at least somewhat filling. So each child has one ticket of tessarae per year, and can take an additional one per family member per year—these tickets are cumulative. We are told nothing of what these allotments mean until six months later.

There are to be these games called The Hunger Games. The irony is not lost on us. The Capitol's lies of telling us we would not go hungry…the hunger we have for freedom. Each slip of paper means a drop in a bowl, a ticket of horror. One girl and one boy from each district will be forced to fight the same from every other district. Only one team will survive.

Being the daughter of a rebellion leader, I understand this more so than the others—the strategy behind this ploy. One boy and one girl from each district taken made to fight against the others—their district rewarded with food if they win…It's made to breed anger against each other and envy—to misplace it against each other rather than to the Capitol who deserves it.

But survival is crucial, the chosen will fight and kill people we fought alongside—were willing to die for almost a year ago. If the Capitol's plans succeed we will turn against each other—we will become enemies to each other instead of them. It's a perfect plan really, to divide us and make us weaker than ever. Who will we have if we don't have each other?

…

I have been caught "stealing". The woods were once a free place if you had a pass. But now there is no pass and going beyond the fences of our district for anything is punishable with lashes. When they capture me, they point a gun at my head and for a moment…I wonder if I should just finish it. Make my move, end my life…but I can't leave my father, or my people. There is still hope of turning this around in the game.

They drag me through the streets; hands bound and tie me to a pole. They're making an even harsher example of me, because I'm a rebel leader and daughter and granddaughter of one. I feel the knife slit up my shirt, severing the back of it until my whole back is bare. The head peacekeeper raises his whip and brings it down hard on me. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out.

I'm not the first to be beaten and I won't be the last. It is customary that they give you less lashes if you cry or if you beg, but I won't. I will not give them the satisfaction. So as the lash comes down on my back over and over again, I grit my teeth barely suppressing screams. I am sentenced to twenty-five lashes since I'm a woman.

I'm holding on to something deep inside of me to keep myself from fading out, from dying…from screaming or begging. Some how as lash after lash hits, I find a way to hold on even when I thought it wasn't possible. When the first lash hit, it was a stinging deep pain that left my whole back raw. The next lash felt like they were touching the insides of my body they were so deep. I didn't think the pain could increase, but each lash seemed to radiate through me as if it was cutting me in half—and that was before the full pain hit.

After fifteen lashes, I could feel his whip catch a corner of skin pulling it ever so lightly. But I kept my cold, dead eyes on the crowd I'm forced to face. I can see their horror; I can see the fleck of blood flying from the whip on to those in the front of the crowd. He senses their displeasure and he targets that shredding piece of skin again; this time as he pulls back the whip, my skin shreds backwards as if I'm being skinned alive. I clench my teeth tighter and I can feel my teeth grinding as I strain forward slightly against the ropes.

Nine more times, the whip pulls layers of tattered skin away from my back. After his last strike, he cuts my hands free and for a moment I struggle as he laughs sadistically. I get my hands under me, and realize it hurts too much to try to use them to push me up. So I cross my arms across my chest to keep my shirt in place and use the power of my legs till I can stand up shakily. My face is pale, my vision is swimming but I'm standing. I hold the front of my shirt to myself and make my way away and somehow I make it down the stairs. I'm stumbling along, my feet are heavy and each step makes me feel like I'm going to pass out. The crowd parts from me, let's me through—and they stare at me with awed eyes for what I've done.

You can beat me, you can try to kill me, you can do anything you want to me—but I will not beg. I cannot beg.

When I'm out of range of the square, my knees buckle and Cristoff is there to catch me when I begin to fall. All the word fades to black.

…

I spend days laying on my stomach while they treat my back, unable to even go to the mines to work—which is the labor of our district. My family will miss the food, but I can't do it—there's just no way. Somehow, Cristoff manages to rescue the food I scavenged before it spoils—so we are okay.

It's only a week later when it happens—the day of what they call the Reaping. All around Panem names are being drawn to fight in an arena. We stand in groups as they read to us the treaty we signed a year ago, one that we will never forget. With stony, impassive faces we go through this new ritual—attentive, looking for some understanding of what is happening. You may volunteer if you like, but only if you're of age and of the same gender of the person you're volunteering for to make things fair.

A man deemed our escort, in his early thirties, stands before us. His strange Capitolian accent breaking over us as he reaches into the large glass bowl. I have seven slips of paper and it's my only year of availability. There are many that have more tessarae than I do. When his hand swirls through the bowl and comes up, he unfolds a solitary piece of paper. He steps to the microphone, "Alexia Carvan!"

I swear under my breath. I don't hesitate, I don't think about it. She had two slips of paper—her brothers had taken tessarae in her place to feed the family. Cristoff, Eric, Christian, and Aelman all look on with pain. They cannot volunteer for her—all of age, all male. I stride forward, my shoulders back and my gait stiff. This was planned, she was planned to pay as the youngest and most beloved child of a leader of the rebellion. They could say what they wanted—she was meant for slaughter. This "game" was rigged.

The pain shoots up my spine, the lashes are still tender—I shouldn't even be on my feet yet. I'm only here because I'm forced to be her unless I'm on death's door. I'm not fit; I'm not able bodied right now… But she's the only thing close to a sibling that I have, and one day she would have—will be my sister-in-law. I shoulder through the crowd grimacing, and people part for me and bow their head in respect. I make it to the front as she's crying and being dragged by a peacekeeper. My hand locks onto his wrist. "Let her go." My voice rings with authority. For a moment he's stunned then he raises his hand to strike me, "I volunteer."

I say it clearly in a normal voice, but it seems so loud in the stillness.

The escort looks around trying to see protocol, though he's obviously enthused. "Well! District 12 will have the first and only volunteer of the 1st Hunger Games!" He motions for me to come up. I mount the stairs carefully, each step causing another wave of pain to shoot up my spine. "What's your name?"

Only this simpleton wouldn't know. "Emera Dayton."

He repeats the name louder as I look over the crowd. Their faces are sullen as I look over them. But what are they to do? I led some of them, my father many more and my grandmother also. We were the ones that told them we needed to stop fighting for now…even if I didn't want to. Well I got my wish; I'd get to fight until I died.

The man reaches into the ball again and plucks another slip of paper he reads out loud, "Alaric Anders!" Another name we all recognize, he's the son of the blacksmith—the only of age person in a family highly skilled at making and repairing weapons. He's also one of my men—quick, skilled, even-tempered, and always willing to follow orders. He was one of the few men that I trusted to carry out a difficult mission. One of the elites—and now he's being sent off to this game with me. I'm glad to have him on my team.

No one volunteers for him. Not that he'd want it anyways. He mounts the stairs, after having a hasty word with a solemn Cristoff, his face just as impassive as before he was called. Nearly six inches taller than me at six foot three, his black hair and grey eyes seemed somehow darker on him than anyone else in the District. His shoulders heavily muscled from working iron for years. He looks to me, and shakes my hand. "Bring us home, Captain."


	3. The More You Know

**I meant to post this earlier but my dentist appointment left me with some mouth pain so I nearly forgot! Hope you enjoy this and next chapter is on Saturday!**

_**And even if you were in some prison, the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses - would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories?**_

_**~Rainer Maria Rilke**_

It's new, this whole procedure. We're lead into the justice building—where once as rebels we held meetings. The walls are fractured, the paint cracked, and the floors stained—a testament to our time here, and how little the Capitol cares to preserve something we've touched.

We're each lead into separate rooms to say goodbye to our families. I walk in and stand, not sure if I sit down right now if I'll be able to pull myself back up. My muscles pull at the healing skin even though I try not to move very much—it's still painful. My father and grandmother come in, eyes bright and shoulders squared.

Grandmother kisses my cheek, "You'll do well Em. Just remember…we won't hate you for having to fight." My father nods as his hand falls on to my arm.

"I can't kill them," I say. How can I? I'll likely know them, or their families.

"You'll have to," my father says gently.

I can feel my anger rising. "I won't fight them! There has to be a way to make them see that we shouldn't have to fight. We can simply refuse to kill each other." It makes sense right? You can't have a game if no one will play.

"You'll die," my grandmother says.

"I'm not afraid of dying," I stare back at her. "I'll make my stand." I can see the way they look at me and as if by common assent they stop trying to change my mind—by now they know it's nearly impossible. So they let me have my way. They don't try to advise me because it won't do me any good—I won't listen.

They tell me to be careful, too be suspicious—we don't know what to expect from these games. Just remember that. And then the peackeepers take them out.

Cristoff comes in and his lips are warm on mine. Even though raising my arms brings intense pain to my entire being, I do it anyways. No matter how detrimental to our health—it's our habit to kiss before battle. Goodbye it says, I love you it promises, and may we meet again it hopes.

He doesn't offer me any words of comfort or promise; we've said them all before—a million times. If I should die…if you should die…if we lose…if we're captured, we know the little speeches by now. He knows every inch of my heart and mind, so there's nothing for him to help me with or warn me about.

I hear the door opening, and all he says is "Keep an open mind," before he presses his three middle fingers of his left hand to his lip and brings them toward me as they drag him out the door. It's a sign of respect of my people—it means love, hope, longing, respect, and thank you. They say it originated somewhere in the hills of North America long ago as women sent their men to war. Back then, it meant something more romantic—but here it means more than that. I press the three fingers of my left hand to my lips and cast it out to him, as the door shuts behind him.

One by one, people of my district come, they tell me goodbye and good luck, they greet me as captain, as friend, as hero, or just someone that is one of them. They each give me the same salute, each tell me they have faith in me.

Soon it becomes evident that there is no shortage of people, so the peacekeepers cut it short. We've had an hour to say goodbye—that's enough. Everyone else just won't get to say goodbye.

They pull us into a car, and I can't help but wish they'd let me drive it—I haven't driven since the rebellion since travel is forbidden and our vehicles commandeered from the war. But in no time, we're at the train station.

When we get on, we realize it's not a cattle train like we expected—it's actually rather lavish. The walls are decadent in a way that only the Capitol can be. It's a stark contrast to how we live. The bright colours standing out from the solemn grey and black hues of our coal dusted land.

It's not long before we can feel the train easing away from the station, and then building speed. We don't move to the windows though this could be our last time here. We just stand there in the corridor without a word—both of us somewhere lost in our thoughts. I don't know what memories are playing in Alaric's mind, but I could guess. The girl he left behind, the family, the graves of his two older brothers gone in the rebellion, and the woods we long ago called home.

My mind drifts, even as I find my feet gliding beneath me. I open a door, and claim it has my room by shutting the door firmly and then lying down on the bed. I lay there for a very long time it seems as my emotions swirl like eddies in a spring.

Back when the rebellion had started was when I first met Cristoff. We were being worn down in frays and fighting, the men weren't prepared. I whipped them into shape, made them realize that there could be planning and uniformity that would help us along. As I got better, I was asked to lead more and more men—I even handpicked a few for my group for special missions.

I'd been shot in the upper arm, when I felt a firm hand using compression to stop the bleeding. I turned to see grey eyes so light in color that it was disorienting when you first saw them. It was a trait I later learned, he and all of his siblings had. After that battle, we fell in easily. He listened well—he was quiet in battle and comforting at camp. He seemed more able to control the mood of the men by his reactions.

It was one night, a particularly tough night after we lost three men that he sat in front of the fire. His body grimy as he sat there and his clothes splattered with stray flecks of blood like he was some artistic painting or something. When I sat down beside him heavily, my arms covered in blood to the elbows after doing everything we could to save Sean I notice the pen and paper in his hands.

My voice is hoarse. It's been so long since I talked, or drank anything or…did anything but try to save Sean. "What's that?" I need a break from this war. From this carnage.

"I'm writing a song," he says smiling at me.

It seems foolish in all this death that he's writing something. I don't understand it really. But anything is better than thinking of Sean's face again. "Tell me about it."

"It's not very good," he says slowly.

"I don't care," I say. "I just need to hear something other than…"I let my words drift off. I don't want to hear anymore screams.

For a moment longer he hesitates before he starts singing. It's soft and low, like he's singing me a lullaby. Everyone stops as his first words break the silence, not one person moving as he sings of the promise of what we're fighting for. Our anthem. Where everyone we love is safe and sound.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

It's what we've hoped for and on his lips and tongue it seems possible. My head drifts down to his shoulder, as the tears in my eyes well. The next stanza falls over us like a blanket.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daises guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

My vision is blurred, but I don't wipe my eyes or move. No one wants to break the spell of his voice.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_

_A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray_

_Forget your woes and let your troubles lay_

_And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

And when he starts the next line, it's already ingrained in my memory. It brings me hope.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet And tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

On the last line, his voice falters a moment and then fades away. No one speaks not for a long time. And I never again question if it's worth it, if it's worth dying for. That place in the song, that's the place we've dreamed of.

That's how it had started. Not romantically at all, just a voice of reason teaching me to hope again. A voice letting me know that we had to keep fighting so that dream world could be real—even if good men like Sean died. It was something worth dying for.

I pull myself up from my thoughts, mentally and physically. I move out of my room, firmly shutting the door before making my way down the hall. I see that it's a lavish dining room. For a moment, I stand beneath the crystal chandelier before I see him. Alaric sits over in the corner with a pen and notepad in hand. "Real paper," he says.

I can't help but smile as he runs his finger over the top of the sheet—his hands permanently stained from working iron. "I thought we decided long ago that Cristoff would be the one writing songs."

Alaric smiles easily, "So we did. But this," he gestures toward the notepad. "This is what we do." Maps. Planning. Numbers. Figures. Lines drawn in the sand so we can make calculations.

"Did you come up with anything?" I ask as I ease down beside him, the skin on my back protesting.

"No," he puts the notepad down. "There's too many variables. We don't know where we're playing, if there will be weapons—how we'll fight or how long. There's no way of planning yet."

"Hmmm," I close my eyes. "No, there's not. But we can train and prepare."

He nods though I thought he would object at first because of my back. But if I can't move and endure the pain of my back, then there's no point.

…

By the time our escort finds us, I'm dripping sweat and blood stains the back of my shirt. It's taking every effort in me to keep lifting the heavy wooden table over and over. Alaric and I had found things to throw and catch to limber up muscles—a crystal ball, heavier than it looks and fragile as a mine if dropped. But we don't drop it. I sit on Alaric's back as he does pushups, my legs crossed as I stretch my arms around a bit. And finally, what we're doing now is the most difficult—lifting heavy pieces of furniture. I'm sweating long before I should and the pain is excruciating in my back and shoulders.

However, when our escort comes in he barely stifles a scream. "What is wrong with your back? What are you doing to the furniture?" He looks like he's about to have a heart attack.

I set down the heavy table, just as Alaric tosses me the crystal again. I catch it offhandedly with one hand even though it's almost too big to do that with. From the reaction of our escort, I can tell that our offhand tossing of something so fragile is unreasonable.

After several minutes of arguing, we agree not to throw breakable stuff if he'll find us something else.

The rest of the evening as we eat and travel is spent in silence. It's not until our escort tells us that we have to watch the other reapings that we know what's going on. Apparently everyone is forced; "required" is the term he uses, to watch the reapings. And as tributes, we'll want to get to know our competition.

Competition?

When the names come up, it's more like a list of who's who of the District rebels—a list of friends and comrades from the Rebellion. There's Jasmine Taylor, and Davis Thompson from one—the rebellion leader's youngest and most talented daughter and Davis, the second in command's only child. Jasmine's blonde curls, her lips are pressed tightly together—she's hiding her fear very well. I know her well enough to know that she's not just talented at trivial things, but just as good at throwing knives. Harris is tall, broad and heavily muscled—easily making her look dainty in comparison. There's Patrick Gonzalez, a lieutenant who captured an entire fleet of Capitol hovercrafts and Edana Reid, a girl who had been spared in the treaty of treason though she spied for District two. Patrick's short, but solid—quick and Edana's mousy hair easily makes her non-descript but there's a bright intelligence behind her eyes. Three had two bright young apprentices to Bernard—who were quickly on their way to making some new scientific discoveries—Gustavo Abriola and Ilsa Croushorn. Both dark haired and average, and very pale. She was best described as wispy while he looked just frail. Four had the skilled, but scarred Victoria Eckler who had protected herself and her wounded Major by sniping any and everyone who came close for fourty-eight hours. Her district partner Dana Bovio who's uncle was the voice of liberation on the airwaves. Victoria's bright red hair stands out in the sea of natural colors, the livid scar across her cheek and the half-blind eye distinguishing her as a survivor. Dana is average height, thin and very strong—dark black hair and sea green eyes with a voice like velvet. Five had the electrician's oldest son, and his oldest niece—Synoton Salyer and Elvira Tubbs—both very similar. Average height, brown hair, blue eyes and noticeably related. District six had Tristan Harless, a boy whose mother was from our district originally—a messenger who could get through any enemy lines, and Hannah Gorecki—a girl who'd had a healer's touch. Tristan has the eyes and hair of us, and looks like he could be my brother. Hannah is small, very small—blonde straight hair and she shakes noticeably with fear. Seven brought Fern Veltri and Fergus Kirwin, a scout and a regular foot soldier—though a favorite of his district, respectively. Fern is dark haired, skinny but tall while Fergus is of the same build he's got more muscle and blond hair. Eight had Senda Dames and Ordan Modzelewski, a brute of a girl who was almost Amazonian and a code breaker. Both darker skinned than the rest of us, Ordan is small almost as small as Hannah while Senda is as tall as Alaric. Nine had Penelope Ziemann and Horcaf Bunge, a map maker and a communicator. Penelope's hair is a wood brown and she's very typical looking with glasses. Horcaf displays a bit of arrogance, and is stout and burly. Ten another rebellion leader's child and her husband—Canta Okelly and Mikal Okelly. We knew her back when she was Canta Pendergrast. Her hair is black, her almond eyes seem to stare into mine as if she knows I'm looking. She's of similar build to me. Mikal is swarthy, and a bit taller. His arms are thick with muscles and scars. I know they were both Captains in their districts. I know the scars that rest beneath her clothes. Eleven had raider and supplier—Gem Mendell and Harvest Wolfinger. Gem is small, flat like a child though I know she's eighteen. Her brown hair pulled up tightly. Harvest is red headed, but not as bright as Victoria's hair, and he's tall—easily the tallest. And then there was us—Emera Dayton, the only volunteer and Alaric Anders, son of the most talented blacksmith.

The whole cast was here. Everyone of them—of us, is important, each death a crippling blow. This was their plan all along…Make no mistake about it, we were chosen specifically for this instead of randomly being reaped.

I look over to Alaric. He raises an eyebrow and I nod my head back at him. As one we get up from the room, my body protesting again in pain. "Where are you going?" Our escort asks, I realize his name is Cyanide now that I've watched the reapings. I stare at him for a moment, and he recoils from us—not saying another word until we've left the room.

It's only a few yards to my room. I jerk open the door and lay on my stomach on the bed, trying not to move. My back is aching so badly from moving. But I've got to, because in a few days I'll be forced to anyways.

I lift my head back up; Alaric is sitting on the floor with the notepad in his hand. There are the names of each of our opponents with little notations beside them. Basically, the things I've already thought. "We're not going to kill them."

He looks up at me, not alarmed in the least. "That would be preferable. But how?" He puts the pen behind his ear as he flips through notes.

I've been thinking about it, so I chose my words carefully. "What's a game if no one plays?"

He pauses for a moment. "And what if we're forced to play? We'll try that. But…" he taps his finger on the paper. "There are too many holes in that plan." And I know he's right even if I hate to admit it. But it's at least worth a try right? He must know what I'm thinking so he smiles back up at me. "I'll keep my notes. But when it comes time to fight. We don't hesitate."

He's looking up at me, and I take a deep breath. "Right. We're coming home, both of us."


	4. One Rule

**Trying to get the site to stay up long enough to get this posted today will be the death of me X_X**

_**He must master or be mastered; while to show mercy was a weakness. mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed." **_  
><em><strong> ― Jack London, The Call of the Wild<strong>_

Even though we talked long into the night, we're awake before dawn—force of habit. My body protests, so I just lay there looking down at Alaric scribbling again. He'd slept right there sitting up. We'd often done it before battles, catching odd snatches of sleep. We both thought it'd be easier to get accustomed to each other and battle after our year of living in houses, without woods, and without battle. It was much easier than I thought to slip into the familiar routine. The subtle movements of sleep didn't stir me, but if someone walked down the hall—we had both been alert and tense, like we were on guard again. It's nice to know that even after all this time, our senses our razor sharp—able to pick up the sound of walking across carpet as easily as walking through leaves.

It won't be hard adjusting to the arena at all—at least not the sleep patterns, the hunger, and the silent fighting. The problem is—that almost everyone we're going against is just as good, some might even be better.

The only thing we know about what's coming is that we'll be forced to fight in a little under a week. We have no idea what is in store for us those next few days in the Capitol before the arena. But we both know that soon we'll be finding out.

I get up, going to the closet and shifting through the shirts. I wouldn't change, but the one on my back is soaked with blood. But none of these things feel like home. Finally, I settle on a dull grey one as I pull mine off. I back up the mirror and see the angry red lashes still across my back. I don't even dare get in the shower, though it seems like it'd be pleasant, for fear of making it worse. Instead, I spend the next half hour gritting my teeth as Alaric cleans the blood from my back and uses some antibiotic cream for "small infections."

It stings and soothes when it goes on. Despite the dampness of my back, I find it's a bit easier to get my shirt on now. I can at least move a little. Alaric however, doesn't even bother changing before we head to the dining room. The sun is just rising as we sit down at the table, and it's only minutes before we're given steaming cups of coffee. I drown mine in cream and sugar while Alaric takes his "black". We had this for the first time when we took the head peackeeper's house in District 12. Bittersweet memories just like the taste of the brown liquid.

We're served breakfast and we're on our third servings and fifth cup before Cyanide's shown up. He looks surprised to see us, but he doesn't comment. He probably doesn't like us that well, which I'm happy about. The meal passes in silence until neither of us can eat anymore. I can feel the bulge of unprocessed food in my stomach. I don't think I've had this much to eat except for right after that raid—when we had to eat all the perishable food.

Before long, we're pulling in to the Capitol. Cyanide tells us we need to go to the doors. He's not approving of our look, but he's too frightened to say anything. I think he's finally heard what exactly we did before the rebellion. So he doesn't even object as we carry our mugs of steaming cups off the trains with us.

The cameras flash into our face, it's blinding—just like a flash-bang. They want us to smile, and be happy to be here. "Honored" or something like that. But we're not. We're not happy, we're not pleased. We very simply ignore them like the vermin they are. If they were small enough, I'd just grind them underfoot.

We're lead into a sleek black car that drives us through the city. I close my eyes sipping my coffee as Alaric keeps jotting down notes and gazing out the window every once in awhile. It's not long before we make it there, and the door opens to more flashes of lights from the cameras. Alaric passes me gently and shoulders through them while I drink my coffee calmly, unafraid of getting jostled by them when I'm walking in his wake.

We're in the building and Cyanide leads us to the elevator and presses the button that says "12". We slowly rise as I finish of my coffee. "So, the truth. Is that your given name or did you pick it out?" I look at our escort which seems to unnerve him.

"It's my given name."

"Mother had poor taste," I sip the coffee as we get off on the top floor. We walk down the hall and inspect the rooms to find lots of colorful people sitting there waiting on use. There's a pink, slight thing standing there. Her body is very pale, and dressed in shades of pastel pink to match her hair.

"I'm Rosa," she chirps brightly.

"Real original," I say as I brush by her.

"We're your stylist team," she follows after me like that means something.

Alaric stands there. "Look, sweetheart. We don't know what that's supposed to mean. They tell you things, not us."

Rosa purses her lips and goes into this long spiel. Apparently, as a stylist her and her team are supposed to make us presentable for the games to get us sponsors. Which brings on more questions. Apparently in the games, you only get the uniform they give you and a token from your district that can't be used as a weapon. Everything else you'll need has to be found in the arena or sent to you by a sponsor. A sponsor buys a gift and has it sent directly to you—some of these gifts can be the difference between life and death. So they'll get us dressed for a chariot ride tonight to parade us around where things will be explained more. But that doesn't stop her from telling us everything she knows.

Apparently, after the chariot rides we get to come back and relax until tomorrow. Then for three days we train. Then on the final evening we get scores. These scores will help decide if people want to sponsor us or not. So we have to show off what skills we have because these numbers they give us show the potential each of us has. Then we'll go to an interview where we have to answer personal questions from some man we don't even know. These questions will let our sponsors get to know us personally—to give them reasons to support us. Then we'll have one more night before we're taken to the arena—which is being kept a secret. What we do know is that there's going to be a place to get weapons, and other supplies only that it'll be hard to get to.

I look to Alaric and he shrugs his shoulders. We've gone in blind before, this shouldn't' be any different. Even though I didn't want to submit to what I feel is going to be another form of torture from them, I condescend to do it when Alaric offers his hand to Rosa who leads him away to another room where four more brightly colored peacock looking people scurry after them.

Rosa returns to me and takes the cup from my hand as she shoos Cyanide out. I'm a bit taken back when she starts unzipping my pants and unbuttoning my shirt, but I don't protest—just look at her oddly. She pushes my hair back and assesses me in my underwear. I can see her eyes grow wide as she looks at me. I know what I must look like to her perfect porcelain body. I'm covered in scars. There's a slash across my stomach, and thighs. There's a burn mark across the back of my knee, and whip marks over my back. She doesn't know that there are more scars beneath those lashes, that there were more injuries that have just faded over time. She doesn't know of the capture or torture I've been through. And she'll never find out from me.

I can hear her cry softly as she looks at my back, her voice is soft. "It must hurt so badly." I turn to look at her, of course it does. What am I even supposed to say to that? But she's collecting herself quickly. She picks up a phone and makes a long phone call. Before long, there's a man in a white uniform who has me lay on my stomach. I'm on the verge of getting back up, when I feel what he does.

I let out a long, refreshed sigh as my back stops stinging and burning. I don't know what he's doing but it feels wonderful. It's like a soft, heat and pressure on my back. I doze on and off to the soft murmuring as I feel the stylists mess with my legs, yanking hair off and tweezing my eyebrows and all kinds of weird things. But it doesn't bother me. My back feels so good that any other pain feels like it's nothing.

…

It took hours for them to finish with my back. It's still tender but much better. They tell me that it's not in danger of ripping open again unless I strain something. After tonight's chariot ride, they'll do more of whatever they're doing and I'll be fine to go to training tomorrow. My back won't even be sore by the times the games start. That is a relief to my ears, but Rosa is trying to figure out what she's going to do with the scars all over me. She says it won't be a problem for tonight though because I'll be covered. Not that I really care what she means.

Though I do realize I care when I'm dressed up in horrid orange jumpsuit that's supposed to be like a coal-miner. I've got headgear on and a pick-axe. Dark, highlighting make-up that's supposed to be like coal. It's stupid though. We don't have uniforms, or any equipment like what we're being portrayed to have. Alaric doesn't look to happy with it either as we make our way downstairs.

My first instinct when I see the others is to talk to them. I walk toward Victoria and open my mouth to speak when I'm backhanded across the face. Lights pop in my head, but I keep my feet. Alaric however has the man on the ground. There's peacekeepers running at him, threatening him with their guns. "Go ahead kill me," his voice is cold and hard. "Then you can explain why you're a tribute short for your precious Hunger Games."

They exchange worried glances then begin to back away. But the peacekeeper who's risen off the floor hits Alaric hard in the cheek with the butt of his gun, knocking him down. I can see the blood starting to flow, and the swelling is just starting as I'm bout to launch myself at the peacekeeper.

"Enough!" There's a loud voice and someone pushes me back gently. "We've got business." There's a large man, whose hair is dyed a light blue. "I'm Julius Flickerman. I'm going to explain a few things."

I help Alaric to his feet while we stand and listen. "There are twelve teams of two; only one team can come home. You cannot make your own teams or bring someone into your team if your teammate dies. You will train for three days, then given a score for betting and gaining you support. The better you do, the more support you get—the better chances of coming out alive are." He pauses and looks us all over. "You have no idea what the arena will be until you get there. When you rise up, you have sixty seconds to wait on a plate. If you step off a moment sooner, you're plate will explode and kill you. The cannon will boom when it's time. You will make your way to or away from the Cornucopia which will hold supplies—it may be your only chance at water or food, you won't know. So choose wisely. The last team or team member alive will be crowned victor of the first Hunger Games. Your district will be showered with food each month for a year and you will be given a house in Victor's Village—where only victors will live. It and a large deal of money are yours until you die."

Victoria crosses her arms, she's in a flowing skirt and bustier with an eye patch across her blind eye. "That's all great. But what are the rules?"

Julius Flickerman straightens his tie as he leaves. "The only rule is kill or be killed."

…

Apparently, we're not allowed to talk to anyone until tomorrow. That doesn't stop us from communicating though. By subtle signs and hand gestures and tapping, we ask how the others are, just the simplest of questions. Everyone pretty much seems intact. But it's not long before we're loaded into horse-drawn chariots and lead through the city circle up to the President's house. I shift the pick-axe in my hand and wonder how far I could make it up there to kill President Rubel, but Alaric shakes his head at me as if he knows what I'm thinking. I discard my fantasy—because if Alaric knows, then they've probably planned for it already.

The people wave and cheer at us like we're some gladiators from history, but we don't really pay attention to them. I glare at them angrily, but it doesn't seem to bother them. I can feel the hand on my face still and I can see the welt on Alaric's cheek—they probably think we're already fighting amongst ourselves.

The President gives his speech and we listen for any more clues of the games. It's basically what Flickerman told us and the Treaty of Treason all rolled into one. Nothing we haven't heard before.

…

When we're finally released, I try to make it to Canta, but we're forced back to the Training Center as they call it and on to the elevator with Cyanide. We make our way down the hall and we watch the recaps. For the most part everyone was ignoring the Capitol except District one and two, who even waved a few times.

We decline supper in favor of eating it in our rooms. Our rooms here are huge, so much bigger than on the train. We split the bed up—which is really quite large. Alaric takes the bottom half while I take the top half. We eat and press our backs against the wall—it's been quite awhile since I've been able to do that.

As soon as we're done, Alaric pulls out his notebook. "I don't think it's going to work, Em."

I scowl back at him, "We haven't even tried."

"They've planned for everything. We're going to have to fight or die."

"We're not going to die," I say. "Both of us come back or neither of us."

Alaric rubs his finger over a page, "But what if it does come down to me and you?"

"It won't, Alaric."

"If it does though—"

"Stop Alaric!"

He does, "Listen, Alaric. We're both coming home. No matter what. If my plan doesn't work, we'll fight."

"Okay," he says simply, content with my answer.

…

We've went over the list over and over. What each person is good at, what's their weakness—who they are and how they act. It's as much psychological as physical. We can't forget that. There's a knock on the door and I get up and walk across to open it. The white-uniformed man from earlier is there. Alaric and I fall silent as he takes care of my back again. Alaric slips away to shower as I lay there with some weird stranger touching my back.

The soothing heat spreads as I try to think of what this means. We're going to have to kill probably—and not just anyone, but people like us. People we've grown up with and have seen married, fall in love, or in Victoria's case, have a kid. We have lived and died with the people. And now, we're just going to die. Just…die. Not only die though, we'll be the cause of each other's death.

The white uniformed man slips away sometime later and Alaric is back. We both just lie on our ends of the bed, and stay silent. I don't have to ask him what he's thinking about—I know that it's Amelia who's on his mind. I see him scribbling something on paper, the same hand that's made countless diagrams and weapons for us are sketching the face of the girl he loves—Amelia. I know what he'll do now, he'll sketch her face and he'll write a note with no names only initials to get back to her. I've seen him do it countless times in the Rebellion.

I shut my eyes and think of Cristoff and wander what he's doing, what he's feeling right now. This is in a way more serious than anything I've ever done before. Death is guaranteed unless I kill the others—then Alaric and I can come home. And Cristoff knows that I don't want to do this. I don't want to submit to that.

But even as I try to hold on to it, on to some idea where we can all make it out of here—it's fleeting. There is not hope because Julius Flickerman told us himself, there's only one rule to this game—"Kill or be killed."


	5. Fracturing

_**I think it's time that you take of that locket  
>Cause I can't even look in your eyes<br>We all agreed that this wouldn't be easy  
>And now we're going nowhere in time.<strong>_

_**Don't make choose between you, and what we're fighting for.**_  
><em><strong>We all will loose if we give up and our efforts are short<strong>_

_**And I know it's been**_  
><em><strong>Such a long time since we've just been friends<strong>_  
><em><strong>And not soldiers on the front line of a war<strong>_  
><em><strong>That we were born into but we have to do this together.<strong>_  
><em><strong>Don't leave me.<strong>_

_**Now we know even the greatest of heros have their moments of compromise**_  
><em><strong>But in the end, we choose how we live<strong>_  
><em><strong>And I need you here right by my side<strong>_

_**Don't make me choose between you and what we're fighting for**_  
><em><strong>We all will loose if we give up and our efforts are short<strong>_

_**And I know it's been**_  
><em><strong>Such a long time since we've just been friends,<strong>_  
><em><strong>and not soldiers on the front line of a war<strong>_  
><em><strong>That we were born into but we have to do this together d<strong>_  
><em><strong>Don't leave me.<strong>_

_**You know you're the only one I need**_  
><em><strong>I can't do this without you Can't you see?<strong>_  
><em><strong>You know you're the only one<strong>_  
><em><strong>Don't leave, Don't leave<strong>_

_**And I know it's been**_  
><em><strong>Such a long time since we've just been friends<strong>_  
><em><strong>And not soldiers on a front line of the war<strong>_  
><em><strong>That we were born into but we have to do this together x2<strong>_

_**Yeah we have to do this together**_  
><em><strong>Yes we have to do this together<strong>_

**_Don't Leave Me by Ministry of Magic_**

**_I 3 Wizard Rock._**

The sun isn't even tinting the sky when I wake up. I pull myself from the covers and look over at Alaric, his hand resting on his notepad. I see Amelia's eyes staring back at me from where he's drawn her. He always told me he could draw her from memory perfectly, and he's never failed. It's only a minute or two before he speaks, "I can feel you staring at me." He pushes himself up. "We should try to sleep longer, get as much rest as we can."

I nod my head back at him. We'd learn to do that, learned to sleep or rest whenever we got the chance because in battle we never knew when we'd sleep again. So we both give in and sleep.

…  
>I hear the sound of his footsteps and my eyes snap open. I'm across the floor and wrenching open the door. Cyanide jumps backwards as I stand there. "It's time for breakfast," he says rather meekly.<p>

Alaric pushes past me. "Em, you don't have to scare him to death all the time."

"Why not? It's fun," I stalk after him into the dining room. For a long time, we don't talk as we shovel food into our mouths and down cup after cup of coffee.

Alaric tears the sheet from his notepad, "This is my token," he hands it over to Cyanide.

"She's very lovely," Cyanide places the paper on a side table. "And you Emera?"

I swallow another mouthful of eggs, "Don't have one." I dismiss Cyanide easily. I don't need his pity and I don't need a token to remind me what I left behind or why I volunteered. I know why I'm here, how could they expect me to forget that?

As soon as we finish eating, we both get ready. It's the first time Alaric's even been in his room besides for when he got dressed for the opening ceremonies. It feels odd to be in my room by myself. I look at the livid marks on my back that are the remnants of the beatings I received not long ago. Already the marks are fading, but never the memories—not of this time or the time before or the times before that or of the very first time when I was fourteen. Layer upon layer of myself torn away to reveal that I have endured and I am not broken.

I pull on the simple black pants and shirt, noticing how it doesn't cover-up the light scars on my arms. But I don't need to hide it from my fellow chosen ones—tributes they call us. That's not lost on us either—we're payment for the wrong we've done, a tribute to the king or rather the President. Piper's got to be paid. That's how things are.

We are lead to the elevator which we take to a subterranean level that is where we'll train. There's not much they can teach us, we're here because we fought too well. We step off the elevator to see the others standing around in groups of two.

Edana, the ex-spy from two, is the only one milling around. She moves easily with a bit of a swagger, her district partner Patrick staying beside her. It would figure she'd be at ease, she's used to playing roles and living on edge. It'll be hard to tell what part of her persona is an act. She stands and talks a long time with Jasmine andDavisfrom one before shaking their hands, both showing signs of happiness at whatever they've decided. She then heads over to Victoria and Dana from four who stare back at her as she speaks to them, Dana andVictoriashare a long look before begrudgingly shaking Edana's then Patrick's hand. Edana's eyes flick to me and for a moment, she looks like she's about to walk towards me then she turns on her heel and walks 's eye finds me, a mixture of relief and pain on her for a brief moment.

"What's that about?" Alaric leans down to me to whisper.

My eyes dart back to the way Jasmine andDavisare standing closer to Patrick and Edana, the wayVictorialooks guilty. I let out a low sigh, "I think…they're forming an alliance. Uniting to kill the rest of us. I'm pretty sure our invitation forgot to be sent."

Alaric rubs the bridge of his nose slowly, the way he does when he's thinking. "That's it then, if they're already allying there's no way to turn this around."

I cross my arms, "We still have to try."

A uniformed attendant comes in front of all of us, "Welcome to training tributes." She spreads her arms out, "You can use any station that you want, there is no sparring or fighting with each other. You may spar or fight with the trainers only." We're then dismissed.

It's stupid really. We can't fight each other, but against trainers who think they know more than us. I understand why they don't want us to fight—we could injure each other and ruin their show. But what kind of training do they expect us to get?

I brush at my shoulder, which is the signal for Alaric to break left. I head straight over to Victoria and Dana. Her clear eye comes up to me, as I close the gap between us. "I hoped we'd meet under better circumstances," I reach for her hand and squeeze it.

She keeps looking in my eyes, "I've had worse odds than this. It's nothing I can't handle."

I pick up a bow and arrow and fire into the target, just off center. It's a bit heavier than any bow I've used, but sturdier too. Her first shot hits the target dead center. I know that the Capitol will dismiss her because she's only got one good eye, but if they do it's a mistake. "I wish…"

She turns her head toward me, "Yeah, me too Em. But wishes are for dreamers, not doers. I've always been a doer—wishing never got me anywhere." She pauses and strings another arrow and sends it flying into another target farther than the first, still on center. "I hope you get killed before I have to do it," she lays down her bow. "Let's not make this harder Emera. I'm going home to my family. If that means in the end, I have to kill you I'll do it—for them."

I nod my head slowly, "I understand." She's just married, just getting a chance to be happy. Her daughter is about four now. I doubt she even remembers me, but I was there when she was born—when Victoria was scared and much too young to be having a child, let alone the child of someone who did that to her. But she never regretted it. Mel was always perfect in her eyes. I know that if it comes down to it, she will kill me even though she's the closest thing I have to a best friend. She won't sacrifice herself for me, and she doesn't want me to do the same either—it wouldn't just be my sacrifice, I'd be sacrificing Alaric too. That's not a sacrifice I can make.

She holds her two fingers of her left hand to her lips, and I return it to her. She has picked up the gesture of our people from her time with us. "May we not meet in the arena, and may it be quick if we do." She turns and walks away, and I know that she is lost to me now. We can't keep holding on to the past, because it's been taken from us and the cost of our future is the blood of our comrades. The piper must be paid though and even I'm beginning to find there's no hope that we can stop this.

…

After another hour of archery, I move on to the knife station where Jasmine Taylor stands. She's got blades between each finger, flicking them into the target with deadly accuracy. The thuds of them hitting their target is loud as I approach her. She looks up at me, the blush stealing across her face as she pushes back her long blonde curls. "Hey," her voice is soft.

"Don't play me, Jas. I know you too well for that," I pick up a knife of my own and weigh it in my hand.

Her voice loses that sickly sweet tone, "Sorry. Old habits. Catch more peacekeepers with honey, you know."

"I'd rather be whipped," I fling the blade to land right by one of hers.

"That's where we're differentDayton, my hide is precious to me and I'd rather not scar it unless I have to." She grabs up another handful of blades and slings out her hand, each blade flying from between her fingers in a circle around the knife I threw. Her cool eyes cut to me, "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to go to parties you aren't invited to?"

"Because there are so many parties where I'm fromTaylor," I feel myself grip another knife tightly. The hilt is pressing into my skin, I can feel every inch of it's carved handle.

She steps up into my face, then she smiles and backs away. "Well, you're not invited to the alliance Emera. That clear enough for you?" She steps back and continues to play with her knives.

When we break for lunch, Tristan from six greets us. He looks the same as us. His mother was born in the Seam. The small blonde shadow of a girl, Hannah sticks to him. I know he's going to have his work cut out for him. She's so very tiny, and frail looking. As a healer, I've heard tales of what she could do to bring back those from the brink of death. My hands have been given the gift and skill of fighting and killing for what's mine. Her gift is much greater than mine, and yet it's the one that she'll have to toss aside if she wants to have a chance at coming home. Tristan leans close, "Mother says hello." He walks away with his shoulders squared and Hannah close on his heels as he protects her from everyone. I can see her wide brown eyes don't hide the fear very well.

It's Canta and Mikal that come to sit with us. Canta hugs my neck gently, "Are yours well?"

"They are," Alaric answers. "And your family?"

"Well," she smiles as she takes another bite. "Much better than the last time we met Emera." She touches my hand gently as I remember when we first stumbled upon each other in a prison cell no less. She'd told me she'd come to rescue me as she sat there in chains beside me.

We talk about our families, we wish each other luck in the games. Canta looks at me with her large almond eyes, "If you kill me, I forgive you." She squeezes my hand tightly, "Say you'll forgive me if it happens the other way." She almost begs for me to say it.

"Canta, you saved my life once. If anyone has a right to take it, it's you. There's nothing to forgive among us, among any of us. We shouldn't be here." I pull her close to me, and I feel her chin resting on my shoulder before she pulls away. She slips her hand into her husband's and they walk away together.

The rest of training goes by with small talk here and there. Gem and Harvest are bright and relaxed. They're at ease, probably the most at ease amongst us all. We talk with them and they hold nothing back, especially not proof of their skills. Everyone of us has our niche, something we're better at than the others or at least mostly. They don't seem to excel at anything though, not any one thing that is.

Each night we talk strategy and eat. Rosakeeps fretting over me about what to do with my dress. She talks about tattoos, stencils, powders to cover up my scars until in my fury I kick off the shoes she had me try and tell her, "Why hide them? They wanted _me_ here. They get me scars and all." I stormed way shortly after, though Alaric's refusal to storm away with me diminished my exit.

It's not long before it's the final day of training. We're supposed to perform before the gamemakers for scores. These scores will show our potential and will affect whether we are sponsored in the games or not. One after the other, everyone disappears into the room until it dwindles down to just me when Alaric shuts the door.

I can pretty much guess what each person did. They must be tired of seeing it by now, there's nothing I can do that's new for them. But when I finally enter the room when they call my name, all the butterflies in my stomach fade away.

I was not born to act or pretend, but to fight and train. When I step into the training room and face the gamemakers, I'm completely at ease just as I always have been when I come face to face with the enemy. There's no anticipation or nervousness, but a surge of adrenaline that drives me.

I walk across the floor slowly and I find the long bow and arrow. They haven't provided us with guns, that'd be too easy, so the bow and arrow will have to do. I choose it because it will go further than if I could throw something—since that depends on physical strength. It's not a typical long bow, a shorter version nearer four and a half foot rather than six foot. I turn and pull the string taut with my arrow notched. I know what they think I'm aiming for—the target thirty yards away from me, but I'm not. I'm aiming much further. About one hundred and fifty yards away, there's a dummy that's undamaged. I can see the red snatch of fabric that indicates where his heart must be. I take careful aim, and as I pause before letting out my breath I let the arrow go.

It flies true, straight into the red patch on the dummy across the room. It's not an impressive shot, at least not by District standards. With a bow this size, you're expected to be able to shoot at least two hundred yards. But the way they react with shock, shows that my shot is good enough—has to be, there wasn't room to shoot anything further away since the room wasn't much larger. I'm dismissed and head to my floor.

I go to my room to find Alaric sitting there sketching again, his hair damp. He gestures to the shower, "Water never runs out."

I shake my head at him and go shower. By the time, I come out he's got the pencil behind his ear staring at his notepad. When I get closer, he turns it to me and I'm not prepared for what I see. There are eight pairs of eyes looking back at me, seam grey eyes. There's my grandmother and father, Alaric's dad Benjamin, Eric, Christian, Aelman, Alexia, and my Cristoff. Each face drawn with loving precision down to the minutest detail. There's the light scar above my father's lip, the wrinkle that always creases Benjamin's brow, the way that Aelman's lips are always tilted in a smile. I feel the sharp sting of tears in my eyes, and I realize it's been so long since I shed them. But I don't want to here in the Capitol, so I take a deep breath and stare at them. It feels so good to see them on paper rather than conjuring them up in some memory. "Thank you," my voice is low as I look up at Alaric.

"I know you don't need to be reminded of them to know why you're here, why we'll probably have to fight. I wanted you to just remember them because you love them, not because we're sent here to die," he pushes back my hair as I lean against his chest. It brings back so many memories—of the rebellion, of lying in the mud hiding as they came to find us, and of the mission I'll never—we'll never forget.

I pull away from him, my eyes clearer now as we go to eat then watch the scores. Cyanide tells me he'll get my picture approved when Alaric hands it to him. He seems frightened of us still, but not as much as before. I watch as he runs a hand through his teal hair, the gold of his tattoos standing out against his hands. I turn back to the television just as the training scores are coming up.

There's this long speech about what the scores mean. It's a scale of potential that the tributes show in the arena with one being the lowest and twelve the highest. A picture comes up then each score, then the number of the team score for the district. At the end, the Districts will be ranked on how they stand. I watch as the pictures go up quickly—Jasmine, 11; Davis, 11; Patrick, 11; Edana, 11; Gustavo, 6; Ilsa, 5; Victoria, 11; Dana, 11; Elvira, 7; Synoton, 5; Tristan, 11; Hannah, 6; Fern, 7; Fergus, 7; Senda, 5; Ordan, 10; Penelope, 6; Horcaf, 8; Canta, 9; Mikal, 11; Gem, 10; Harvest , 11; Emera, 11; and Alaric, 11.

We're tied with both districts one, two, and four for twenty-two while the rest trail down to a love of eleven from district three. The screen comes up showing the betting odds so far—it officially opens as soon as the interviews end tomorrow. I see we're ranked highly, but Edana and Patrick are on top—the most popular tributes so far.


	6. The Roles We Play

_**And how have I lived? Frankly and openly, though crudely. I have not been afraid of life. I have not shrunk from it. I have taken it for what it was at its own valuation. And I have not been ashamed of it. Just as it was, it was mine." **_  
><em><strong> ― Jack London<strong>_

We're up and eating again before Cyanide comes to us with Rosa beside him. The frail little person she is bounds over and sits beside Alaric, "Say it again?" It's the begging voice of a child. She looks it too with her petite figure and her light pink clothes more suited to a young girl.

"Honey? Sweetheart? Darling?" He says questioningly as she claps her hands in pleasure. She gets him to say it three more times before she stops.

"Why are you here?" I ask as I shovel eggs and sausage dripping in syrup in my mouth.

"I'm here to talk with you about your interview, and get you both fixed in your clothes." She drinks her coffee daintily and she looks at us with her pink little rabbit eyes. "So what kind of angle do you want for interviews?"

"I don't care," I say as I take another sip of my drink.

"What are you good at at?" She prods.

"Fighting," I offer.

"You could go as bloodthirsty, like you're a killing ma-"

"No," I say it firmly. "Killing is not a pleasure. I won't do that. Come up with something else."

She asks me several questions, and Alaric even more. When she finally figures out an angle, she talks with Cyanide about it in front of us like we're not even there. It surprises me what she decides to go with when I tune back in for her announcement of who we're going to be. "Alaric, you're going to be devoted. Talk about Amelia," she touches his hand lightly. "Tell about fighting with Emera, what it was like, what you would do for your people." She turns to me, "I want you to talk about your battles, about what you've done. Not boastful. Just show what you're capable of, show that you are used to victory, tell them what you have sacrificed."

"Why?" I ask her confused. It's not the type of thing I thought she'd want me to think about let alone use. But she silences me.

"You'll see later."

…

We spend the rest of the day being asked questions and coached on our interview. I'm made to walk in heels, which I took to rather easily. We're dismissed for an hour and I decide to nap before we're called to get ready.

Alaric is lead off to his room as my "prep" team comes in and does my hair. Rosa is very precise about everything. My hair is pulled up with a few loose tendrils hanging around. It's a messy but deliberate style. There's flecks of lovely silver wove throughout my hair so that it catches and reflects in the light. They highlight my face with the same silver tones around my eyes, and leave me the rest of me virtually alone. Instead of covering up the scars that are scattered on my arms, they use make up to let them stand out more. I don't understand why they're doing this until Rosa gets me into my dress and winds the ribbons of my shoes up my ankle

She turns me to the mirror as she speaks, "I took your advice. They wanted you because you're a fighter. Let's let them remember that." My dress is white and sleeveless, it doesn't dip low but just goes across my chest—brocaded in silver along the top, just a smidgeon of colour to bring out the sparkles in my hair. The scars pop out against my arms and in stark contrast to the white of my dress which flows to my stomach where it bunches so that my sides and all of my back is exposed, before it flows back out and around to the floor and clings to me but not too tightly. You can see the scar on my stomach clearly on each side of the fabric. There's a split up the side of my dress that shows the burn mark on the back of my knee, and the slash across my thigh. When I turn around, I see that they didn't put anything on my back—but the livid scars are there. Some of them still fresh and barely healed, while the darker scar tissue is viewable. She pushes some silver bangles on my wrists as I stand there looking at myself.

I never thought she'd take me seriously, but she's allowing Alaric and I to be who we are. Show the scars, let the know we can fight. Don't try to hide who we really are—she'd taken it to heart. "Do you like it?" She asks it gently.

"Yes," I say it simply as she claps her hands childishly. She leads me to Alaric who's neat grey suit and white shirt matches me. I can see the scars on his arm are prominent and that he's got no jacket to cover it. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing the start of a lengthy blade mark.

"Time to go," she pulls us both along.

…

Cyanide and Rosa situate us in the car and give us small talk to help with our nerves, but it's not us who are nervous—it's them. When we get out Cyanide drapes his jacket over my shoulders so no one can see. They bid us goodbye and let us mingle with the others. His coat is still draped around my shoulders and I pull it tight as I've been asked to.

I want to talk—to speak with the others, but we're once again silenced and led out on to stage before I can even see the others properly. I square my shoulders as each person walks on stage ahead of me. The crowd is screaming and applauding as they each file out of the dimly hit hallway out onto the stage.

Gem and Harvest go out ahead. We're supposed to wait ten seconds behind them before we go out, but as usual I push it. What are they going to do? Scar me more? I'm not afraid of them. I throw off Cyanide's coat, the sound of the expensive fabric hits the floor and the clank of the buttons resounds as I hear the murmmerings of the crowd. They know we should have entered by now.

Alaric stands reclined against the wall behind me, content to follow my lead no matter what punishment it brings. I look past him to see security moving towards us to force us on stage. I step out onto the stage and all eyes are riveted to us. There is no screaming at first, stunned silence as my heels click on the floor like the ejection of cartridges from an old-fashioned gun. My shoulders are square and my eyes are staring straight ahead. I don't wave like the others, I don't beg for their approval. They can accept me or not.

They are quiet as we move across the stage and take our seats. I see the screens zoom in not on my dress—but on the areas that are uncovered by dress. It is my scars that fascinate them and repel them. I doubt if most of them have ever seen scars like these. Back home mine are nothing compared to some of the others scars. But for them, I am the most scarred—only because my stylist chose to flaunt mine rather than hide them. They cannot take their eyes away from the horror they have inflicted on me. I hope it makes them sick.

I can feel the bright heat of the lights that are focused on us. The heat is unnatural, but I've withstood worse in weather. I sit there and let my eyes roam across the stadium as my eyes become accustomed to the bright lights. Most of them are staring at us like creatures in a zoo—terrified and intrigued by us. I guess that's only fair, they've heard what each of us are capable of. None of us is here for being kind except Hannah.

"Welcome to the very first ever Hunger Games!" Julius Flickerman appears on the stage out of nowhere causing thunderous applause from the audience. His hair is a sickly pale blue like ice. "Thank you all for coming tonight. I assure you this new game will be fascinating! You've heard the hype, you will not be disappointed." More clapping for our death.

"As each of you know, there are twelve teams. Each time will fight until only one team is left standing. The winners will have fame and fortune!" The audience makes a pleased sound and applauds the prize. They're whispering back and forth like it's a fair price to be forced to die for. It's not like we got to choose who came here to die.

"So now, let's meet the tributes!" Everyone applauds, consulting their programs for names. I can still see their eyes flickering over to me, wondering about my scars about who I am. Flickerman flashes a bright smile, "Jasmine Taylor and Davis Thompson from District one!"

Her curls are perfect, her scarlet dress hugs the curves of her body. She has rubies encircling her arms, and dangling into her plunging neckline. She's one of the least scarred of us all. It was easier for her to get out of things with her smooth tongue, amiable nature, and porcelain looks. Her hair is down, half-way down her back. I know it's because of the livid scar on the back of her neck, her one glaring imperfection. She lays her manicured hands in Flickerman's. He kisses it as she smiles delightedly at him, "Thank you for having me, Mr. Flickerman." She flutters her dark black eyelashes, and purses her ruby lips as the crowd goes wild.

Davis saunters up beside her, and shakes hands with Flickerman. He towers over them both, quiet and wearing a suit with red accents. He answers more with what sounds like a noise than words as Flickerman asks them about themselves. "Tell me about yourselves," he prompts.

Jasmine lays her hand on Flickerman's arm and talks about herself very little—the youngest of four daughters at only sixteen. She only talks about herself when Flickerman coerces her to. It's a carefully calculated charade to look sweet and non-lethal, like a sweet, unassuming girl. She plays up all the aspects of Davis—about how great and kind he is, about how strong he is and how kind. Which he is, but I've seen his kindness in interrogations before.

A buzzer signals the end of their time, and he calls out the next tributes. "Edana Reid and Patrick Gonzalez from District two!" Edana walks forward, she's average and she's not nearly so made up as Jasmine. There's an exotic look to her in her dark purple dress, one sleeve covering her heavily scarred left arm. Patrick is short and compact, and he's wearing something a bit more military in cut. It's clear they're playing up to their strengths—his brute force and her mysterious spying capabilities. Their time goes by without learning much about them, except that everyone wants to know more. There's just enough to tantalize—to hint at things they've done or may have done.

Ilsa Croushorn and Gustavo Abriola are next. They're both slight and pale. The majority of time is spent talking about fascinating things that normal people can't even begin to understand. They show just how brilliant they are. They talk about being special apprentices of Bernard, whom everyone in the Capitol knows has invented most of their modern conviences—electric current to dry your hair when you exit the shower, the communication lines, the force fields—the list goes on and on.

When Flickerman calls, "Victoria Eckler and Dana Bovio of District four, I'm not quite prepared. She and I haven't spoken since our exchange in training. The line is clearly drawn, we can't be on friendly terms with each other. All we can do is hold on to the past, and not think of what it means to us now and the consequences it will bring.

She walks up with livid scar across her face, the white of the eye so stark compared to the bright green of the other. I know that she can see shadows from it, not much—but at least it's better than most people know or even assume. Her dress matches her good eye exactly, and Dana's sun darkened skin stands out against his shirt that matches her dress. She lets Dana talk for the most part, his smooth voice is like velvet—the voice so similar to the voice that ran all the news for the Districts during the rebellion, the voice of his uncle. He speaks with ease, his voice deep and booming and relaxing. He lulled you in, you found it easy to get lost in whatever world he painted.

Victoria's vibrant red hair was braided with pearls, and she spoke only of her recent marriage and her daughter briefly. Instead she steered the conversation around to how she held off an entire battalion for hours with her sniping skills, she tells how she lost the vision in her eye without an ounce of regret. Everyone is terrified by her persona, and intrigued by her composure. She's deadly, like a shark lurking just beneath the waves. She doesn't balk from any questions about what she's done in the war, relating any lurid detail without a lose of composure. By the time they sit down, the audience doesn't know what to think of them.

Elivra Tubbs and Synoton Salyer, the cousins, stand up and talk easily about their lives. They're not strong, but they do have certain finesse for electricity. They pass without much notice or fanfare. Hannah Gorecki and Tristan Harless come up next. Hannah holds on to Tristan's arm, her whole body shaking. Her hair is simple and sweet, her dress is pink and childish—a delicate ribbon wrapped around her waist. Tristan shields her easily. I see his eyes find us for a moment, and he nods his head easily. He knows what's going to happen as well as I do. It'll take all of his focus to hurt her—she alone of us as all has never hurt a soul.

Flickerman asks about the people she's helped, tries to lure her out a little more. But all I can hear is the sadness in her voice, "I want to go home." Her lips tremble, but she holds her head high. "I miss my family. The hospitals short without me, it's where I should be." But no amount of pleading here would get her home. Tristan speaks briefly about where his mother was originally from, about his wartime efforts. He vows he's going to do his best to bring them both home. Not one eye in the entire place is dry by the time they go back to their seats.

Fern Veltri and Fergus Kirwin talk about family and home and all kinds of things. I know they're good, but visually and—they're just boring. Ordan Modzelewski and Senda Dames make a bigger splash. She's large and dark, very dark—imposing and domineering while Ordan is slight like Hannah but just as dark as Senda. They talk easily, and Senda makes no qualms that she will be the strongest girl—that she's not afraid of anyone. Penelope Zieman and Horcaf Bunge do make an impression, she's sweet and intelligent while he's belligerent and annoying. Simple as that Districts seven, eight, and nine pass.

Canta Okelly is wearing a long sleeved dress of a pale blue, but it ends short—just barely covering everything. Mikal, her husband, has his arm around her waist, and he's covered all the way above his throat with a dark coloured turtleneck—makes sense, no one wants the crowd to see the scar from a failed hanging. They talk about family, of their love of home. Both quiet, content to let their eyes drift over the crowds. It's unnerving as they do so, I've seen her eyes do this before as if she's holding each person accountable—she is, and she should. They talk about their recent marriage, about the hope for a peaceful future and Flickerman wishes them luck before they sit down. Her eyes dart to mine, and I see the look of sorrow pass over her face.

Gem Mendall is small, accented in a orange, and yellow print like fall. It's a normal dress, not too long or too short—but it has personality. Harvest Wolfinger is decked out in a orange suit that clashes brilliantly with his red haired. But they laugh and joke with Flickerman, they're the only ones completely at ease with him. The audience loves them for it—they're resilient after all they've been through.

When they're seated, the audience falls quiet as Flickerman calls, "Emera Dayton and Alaric Anders from District twelve!"

I stand up, pausing to sweep the crowd with my eyes before I move. In perfect synchronization, Alaric and I move across the stage to Flickerman. It's like we've planned it, but we didn't have to. After years of battle with someone you can predict and to a certain extent just know what your companion is going to do. You know your partner as well or better than yourself—that's how well I know Alaric.

The audience is mesmerized by us as we stand before Flickerman, and he backs away a step involuntarily as our grey eyes focus in on him. We do not smile, but we stand there easy. I wonder if he knows how easy it would be for someone like Alaric or I to break his neck? The only thing is it would serve no purpose to kill him—if he was the President, if he was Rubel I'd do it in a heartbeat no matter the consequences. But it's not a choice, no sense daydreaming about it.

"Welcome Emera and Alaric," he smiles warmly.

"No," my voice is chilling. "It's Captain Dayton and Sargeant Anders to you."

He glances nervously at me to see if I'm joking, but I'm not. "Yes, Captain Dayton. Sorry about that, I didn't know that you still went by that title…"

"Why? Because the Capitol destroyed us? Because there is no more Rebellion?" I can see him fidget. "I am not ashamed of who I was, of who I am. I came here."

Alaric smiles and looks at Flickerman easily, the bruise on his check dark and visible. "She's a good Captain. I have no doubt she'll bring us home in one peace. She's exceptionally skilled, and it's been a honour to serve under her.

Flickerman smiles uneasily, "I have to say I'm quite…intrigued by your choice of attire. It's unconventional." He smiles at the audience, and there are murmurings of agreement.

"What makes you think we had a choice in our attire?" I ask of Flickerman, "What makes you think we have much of a choice about anything in our lives anymore?" I raise an eyebrow.

Alaric cuts in and smiles at me warmly, "You mean our scars?" Flickerman nods his head. "Why hide them? They wanted _us_ here. They get _us_ scars and all." I can't help but smirk at his paraphrasing of my words. "We came here because we are fighters, we are the best of the best. There is no one as skilled as any of us. That's why we're here, why we're all here." He pauses and the whole place is quiet. "Why should we hide who we are? And Captain Dayton is the only volunteer. We are capable and brave, no one can doubt that. We fight for what we believe in, for our lives…and sometimes we fail."

I place my hand on his arm, "We have fought a war." My voice rings out as I look over them all. "We have seen thousands die. Now that the war is over, we're supposed to have peace—but there is no peace, not when we are being sent to fight our friends and family. Why is this happening? We have been asked to stop for the sake our people! So that we will not be destroyed like District thirteen!" I raise my hands, my palms up in supplication as I turn slowly on the spot. I hear the gasps as they see my scarred body again. "But here we are! Forced to fight after being begged to stop! Forced to destroy our own people! This is not the peace we laid down our weapons for! This is still war! Why did we stop fighting for this?"

There's not a sound in the whole area. You could hear a casing drop in this room. Flickerman's mouth is hanging slightly open at me. My face is on every screen, my eyes wide and confused looking and my lips parted. My hands still raised in question—to a question they cannot answer. "Tell me, please. Because, I don't understand. Why?"

But there is no answer as we are dismissed.


	7. The Plea

**__****Welcome to the launch of the very first Hunger Games!**

_**A man chooses; a slave obeys. **_

_**Andrew Ryan, BioShock**_

The lights dim and we are lead off stage. I feel something collide hard with face, and I'm on the floor. Alaric is yelling and fighting, but they're holding him back. Kicks land in my face, and in my stomach and I curl to try to protect it, even though I'm dazed. When his foot comes at me again, my hands shoot out and I wrench his ankle sharply around. The loud crack fills the room as I scramble to Alaric's feet, wrapping an arm around his leg to pull myself up. My left eye is swelling shut, and my mouth is filled with blood.

We are surrounded by them, both free and they're scared of us as I struggle to my feet beside Alaric. Cyanide brushes past them all, and wraps his coat around my shoulders—the very coat I had discarded earlier. No one argues with him as Rosa fusses over me. When we reach the door, he pulls the jacket up over my face and pulls me to him to shield me from the cameras, but I push him away. "I'm not hiding anymore," he tries to stop me but I walk out to the bright glare of the cameras.

The flash goes off in my face over and over again, I can see very little out of my left eye at all. But I just push through them all uncaring, bloody and tattered. Why should I hide what they have done to me? I have made my point, the greatest effort I can to stop this game from happening.

When we get out to our rooms, Cyanide and Rosa are trying to clean me up but I push them away. They are not a part of this, they were never apart of this. It's Alaric who convinces me to let Rosa take care of me. No one speaks at all as she gets someone to look at my eye. After awhile, it's bruised but I can see out of it—even if it is sore. Guess the Capitol is good for something.

When the attendant leaves, Alaric reaches out for my hand. "Was it worth it?"

His eyes search mine, "It was worth the effort—worth the chance." I squeeze his hand and press the ice to my eye again while Cyanide keeps staring at us.

He sighs before beginning, "Tomorrow, you'll be picked up on hovercrafts and taken to an unknown arena. Then you'll be lifted up into the arena. Remember, not to step off the plates until the gong."

Alaric nods, "We remember. The mines."

Cyanide sighs before he stands up, "This could be the last time I see you…" He pauses, "Good luck, I mean that." Alaric nods as Cyanide heads off to his room.

We make our way to my room and we both lay down without a word. My mind goes back to other nights before a battle. There were nights I was so tired that I was asleep as soon as my head touched my pack. Other nights I laid in worry at the next days plans—my decisions would result in deaths no matter what. It was a lot to live with. And if my plans failed, how many nights would I spend sleeping next to Alaric with a weapon in my hand? We'd done that before when we were hunted.

I thought of all the goodbyes I had, the likelihood despite my words of us coming home. There were others, just as capable as us—others I would rather die than have to kill. But this was not just my life, it was Alaric's and I would not let him die for them. I could be self-sacrificing with my own life, but not his—he was under my command, but what's more he is my friend.

I could sleep, I've trained my body to do as it's told—because not doing it could get me killed. But I just don't want to sleep, this could be my last night alive—my last night living. It's a fate I've accepted thousands of times over the past three years, but the difference is that my blood will be on hands that I know. But wishing is pointless, just like Victoria said.

It's with that thought that I let myself sleep.

…

I dream of a time where Cristoff's song is true. There are children who are happy and well fed. They are free. Never have they felt the chains of slavery like their parents—but the dream ends as suddenly as it came. My eyes open to the dark, and I can hear Alaric's breathing still even—but I can tell he's awake. There's a slight difference in the normal sound of his sleeping, something I've garnered over time. But neither of us say anything as we wait for them to come for us.

It takes an hour before Rosa comes for us. She's anxious and flighty, looking like she hadn't slept at all. She leads us out as we are, and we're taken to the roof to board a hovercraft. We are the first of hundreds of tributes that will use these hovercrafts if our plan fails. The years of slavery are just beginning.

Alaric nods to me as he's take on a hovercraft and I on another. When I'm taken inside, I'm prepared in a uniform. Black boots, dark green pants and jacket, and black shirt. The whole outfit feels military, but more blended to fit with jungle or woods. Just another way to show we are former militants. My long hair is pulled up into a bun and pinned into place. They want to put make-up on me, but I refuse. It'll just run and get in the way—just hide me.

When I'm released it's into this small cement room. There's no windows, just one door and a plate. I wait there for a long time, eating my meal hungrily and then stretching my limbs before Rosa comes to see me. She gives me my token, and I unfold it to take one last look at the picture Alaric drew of my family before it all begins. Each contour and line of their faces is there. Somehow the drawing holds their personalities too. I don't understand how Alaric could make it so, but he does.

I tuck the drawing away into the inside of my boot and re-lace it. Rosa adjusts my hair, fixes my collar—fidgety nervous little actions. I'm at ease though. One way or the other, I'll know today if the plan works. There's no use fretting about it or anything. I can feel the adrenaline starting to surge into my body. I let it take me over, tune out everything else as my heart pumps harder. When I open my eyes, I feel the perfect clarity coming over me.

Rosa leads me over to the launch area and I stand there as the tube lowers. She waves goodbye, and I can see the crystalline tears on her overlong lashes. It strikes me odd that she's crying for me. I know she's been kind, but it's hard to think of her like that when she dresses me up like her own doll.

I rise through the darkness. Closing my eyes once again so that I can adjust to the light easier at the top. I can see the edges of the light seeping in through my lids, and I open my eyes for the first time in the arena.

All around me there's a rocky, woodsy terrain. Easy to utilize cover—plenty of weapons with the rocks and woods. It's a beauty of an arena. But right in the middle, is a large golden horn—a cornucopia. Centuries ago, our people use to give thanks for the harvest of their food and their blessings. The cornucopia was a symbol of plenty only no one gives thanks anymore. What is there to give thanks about? There is no plenty for the districts of Panem.

I turn to my left and right, and I see to my chagrin that Alaric is not there. My eyes search for him quickly as the time counts down, and I find him finally almost directly across from me. We're easier to pick off alone.

How many more seconds are left until the gong is unknown, but I hunch my shoulders and prepare to launch myself forward. Each muscle tensing in preparation, until the sounds of the gong sends me propelling forward like a spring.

My legs stretch out and it feels good to be moving naturally again without heels or makeup or anything so garish as Capitol garbs. I'm not the fastest, Canta and Tristan reach the Cornocopia first—ignoring each other as they reach for supplies even though they're shoulder to shoulder. Neither of them wants to make the first kill. By the time I reach them, Tristan is locking blades with Jasmine.

Canta sweeps by me with Mikal as I reach the cornucopia. I grab a weapon just as Alaric reaches me. He boosts me up above him so that I can pull myself up on to the top of the Cornocopia. I find my footing just as Alaric begins locking weapons with Davis. I pull myself to the top, and take a deep breath as I shout. "Listen to me!"

For a moment, no one responds—they keep on fighting. Elvira is down, appearing lifeless. I shout louder, "Listen! This has to stop!" But as I throw the axe in my hand down amongst them that's when they finally pay attention. "We can't find amongst ourselves. There can't be a games if we won't play. Lay down your weapons, let's stop this now."

I can see the want on their faces and the doubt. "A game isn't a game if no one plays. We can stop this together! We were denied our freedom, but we can stop them from forcing us to kill each other. It's time we make a stand, even if it's our last stand." They're looking at me, they're digesting the words and considering my plea. "All we have to do is stop! Who's with me?" I offer out my hand.

No one moves, not a single person. "Is no one brave enough without a weapon? Will no one stand up to them? Will you all let us be destroyed? Who's with me?" I shout it this time, every word ringing in the stillness. I see her move toward me. Her blonde hair in a long braid down her back, so small like a child. Hannah reaches her hand out to me, her eyes filled with tears and hope. She wants this just as much as I do, a way out—a way to stop these horrible games.

Her petite hand falls into mine. It's working, everyone is lowering their weapons. Hannah's hand shakes as she looks up into my eyes. My hand tingles where her fingers touch mine, I can feel all her warmth and being in her hands—hands that are for healing, for peace.

For a moment, I think that maybe this crazy thing will work. I'm opening my mouth to speak when I see her eyes widen slightly, her pupils dilated and her lips parting. The heat is so close that I feel it rushing past me. A ball of fire hits Hannah, ripping her body from me. Before my very eyes, I see her disintegrate—all that's left of her is the hand that still is gripped in mine. For a moment, I see the pink painted nails against the pale skin—what's left of the blood in her hand is pouring out and down the horn.

Below me the fighting breaks out again. The message is clear. Fight or we will destroy you all, we are capable. I've failed in stopping this. I have to fight or die now.

With regret, I let go of her detached arm and slide back down seizing a weapon. I see Tristan running off into the forest. He had come and intended to protect her and he'd failed already through no fault of his own. It was her kind, compassionate heart that got her killed—there's no shame in that.

I can feel my body shaking slightly as I dive under Dana's mace and roll to the weapons. I grab the long bow, shaft of arrows, knife, and rapier while Dana moves on to easier targets. I see him skewer Synoton, the blood spilling out of his mouth in gobs. He struggles on though, trying to take Dana with him though it's useless.

Alaric slams off Davis, bloodying his nose and throwing him to the ground before he grabs up his bag, axe and long bow with his sword already in hand. We run to east after getting out of the scuffle. When I look back, I see that Penelope is down—abandoned by her district partner Horcaf. I knew he was selfish, but I didn't think he'd leave her like that.

Alaric and I run through the trees, weapons loose and ready as we go. My whole body is on alert, hyper aware of everything going on. We run and encounter no one, keeping our fast clip for two hours. When we break, we check the bag—there's an empty water bottle, and a small medical pack. Absolutely, nothing else at all. Our weapons are great, both armed with long bows and then we have a combination of a shoulder axe, hand axe, assortment of knives, rapier and a blade similar to a broad sword.

We squat there knowing that the others will be moving around, some—likely Jasmine, Davis, Patrick, Edana, Victoria and Dana might even start hunting the others. We're not safe waiting here, but Alaric makes us rest longer than I want. "Are you okay?"

"Of course," but we both know I'm not. I watched them hit a girl with a fireball. I felt the heat searing my skin, barely missing me as it passed me and hit her. I can see the look on her face, just before the fireball hit her. Her flesh melted into bone. Her flesh and blood seared off until there was nothing left but a few ashes that blew away as quickly as they caught the wind.

We're up and moving again, this time with Alaric in front with his axe and myself behind him creeping backwards with the long bow. We find it best to have one loaded for long range and one loaded for close—the other can bridge the gap until the other can change weapons.

It startles us at first when the cannon's fire. There's four shots, before Flickerman announces that the cannon's symbolize the deaths—Synoton, Elvira, Penelope, and sweet Hannah.

There are twenty of us left. Four of us gone before noon. Now the real games will begin. All alliances are tenuous, friendships straining against survival. The Capitol has made it clear, showed us that it has no qualms about killing us if we won't play their stupid game. We are forced to fight…and to die.

The slavery we fought against is finally imposed on us. The only way to escape it is to die.

…

It's about two o'clock we judge by the sun. We have no food provided to us, so we'll be hunting for it. We're quiet, so it's not that difficult. The problem is cooking it, what I wouldn't give for some coal right about now. I leave Alaric behind while I down a few birds. They're common in our district—so they're safe to eat.

When I get back, he's got some dry wood starting to burn against a rock wall. He's shielded the fire from one side with some stones. We're able to cook the meat directly in the fire—sure the outside burns a little, but no one can find us from a blaze. It's not the most gracious or best way to cook, but it serves in a hurry. Once we smoke/burn the food we store it in our packs, determined to not eat until the afternoon when we have some water.

It takes us another hour to find a stream. It's not too difficult once we follow some game tracks. But it takes us another hour to approach the water when we see the vague signs that someone has been there—someone human.

It's obviously a man's footprint, heavier. It's not Harris, Patricks, Dana, or Mikal's—they wouldn't be so careless as to leave such a huge footprint there in the mud. It's still soft and wet. As we fill up our bottles, and drink we decide what to do.

I look at Alaric and he shrugs his shoulders. We don't have to hunt the man, but we'd be foolish not to. We've tried peace, and that failed. All we can hope for is to survive. Alaric won't press me, and we don't even speak as we squat there silently communicating. I know he's not keen on it, but he wants to get this over with. We're not going to get out of this clean. By the end—we'll have blood on our hands.

I sigh deeply before standing, "Time to hunt."

Like the slaves we are, we rise to obey the rules of the game. And it makes me sick.


	8. Nock the Arrow

**Sorry this wasn't up earlier...fanfiction died on me. Sorry it's late. Things are...slowing down in life, I think. We'll see! Hopefully!**

_**"Always after a defeat and a respite, the Shadow takes another shape and grows again."  
>"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo.<br>"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."  
>The Lord of the Rings<br>Gandalf and Frodo Baggins, Chapter 'The Shadow of the Past'.**_

I hate that it's come to this. But we can't be foolish and not hunt this tribute. If we spare him now, might he not kill us later? It's a hard lesson we've learned in the past. The man you spare today can kill you tomorrow.

When did I start thinking of him as a tribute? Why have I given him the name that our President Rubel has given us? Has he already become a tribute to me—someone unfamiliar and distant, a wild animal I have to kill for my survival?

I know this was planned. It's why the Capitol chose fighters. Our self preservation kicks in and we do what we do best—we fight. Of all the things I hate the Capitol for; I hate them for this the most. They've taken my freedom and now they are taking my humanity. If we survive this, we'll never be the same.

We walk along, following the footprints easily. He's heavy; the way the imprints of his feet sink in shows that. I cycle through the list of tributes until I find the likely culprit—Horcaf Bunge. He's stocky, and not trained to cover his tracks. He's the only one who would fit the description and be alone.

Alaric takes the point and we move swiftly after him—the man who is now our prey, our enemy. Our eyes dart back and forth through the rocky terrain and trees to make sure we're not followed. The supple leather of our boots are a strange mix of boot and moccasin—sturdy enough like boots, but more flexible than any boots we had back at home.

The light filters through the trees as we keep our pace, the dappled sunshine falls on the ground ahead of us. Each tree, each area of this rocky forest holds a shadow that could be hiding our enemies—our friends. But we dart amongst them like shadows ourselves as we draw closer to our first kill.

…

After an hour, the footprints are fresh. He can't be more than a few minutes ahead of us. There is no insect tread marks across the footprint, no resuming of animal life in the vicinity that shows his passing was long ago—everything points to it being recent. The trees start to thin out, and we move slower and closer to the ground armed and ready.

But when we reach the end of the trees we don't even have to try to hide. In front of us is a large meadow, just like the one back home. The only difference is that the grass here is higher—some waist high, and some even taller. Dandelions and wildflowers dot the area, and the grass sways in the wind. There's a wild and beautiful allure, and for a moment I feel like I've left the games and I've been transferred to some ethereal and surreal place. I feel almost as if this is the meadow that Cristoff sang about.

I feel a burn in my chest, so the Capitol knows about that too? They know how much this song means to me? Is this planned? Are they using it against me? I don't doubt it; they know no bounds of cruelty. After all, it was Cristoff's sister who was supposed to be here—maybe even they were orchestrating that her death be in this meadow.

Well, they and their plans can go to hell.

Alaric puts down his axe and I see him preparing to string his bow, but I wave him off. If anyone is going to do this, it's got to be me. I've got to show them that I understand their message, their intentions and that I do not care. I want the message to be clear: Whatever plans you had for Alexia's death aren't useable. I'm not a weak girl; I'm not thirteen years old. I am strong from years of fighting and rebelling, from working in the mines. You will not break me.

I take off my pack, set aside the rest of my weapons as Horcaf keeps walking—because it is indeed him. I set my feet firmly, my left foot in front. I pull out an arrow from the shaft and nock the arrow. My index finger rests on top of the arrow, and the next two fingers under it. I pull my arm back and my elbow slightly up, the muscles in my back protest slightly with residual pain but I ignore it. My arm is steadier and straighter as my hand comes to my jaw. My index finger rests right under my chin, and the string touches my chin and nose—just a breath away from my lips. Back home, they call a fatal archery shot the "kiss of death" for this reason. The rest of my hand is anchored against my neck.

I check the sight line; the string is blurry from its closeness. I adjust to aim for his back, it's a cleaner and less painful kill. I take a deep breath to steady myself, knowing everyone is watching. They're waiting to see if I can pull this shot off—it's about two hundred and fifty yards (the standard range in the districts for battle with a long bow). It's a shot I've made over and over again, I won't miss.

The words fill my head as I take Horcaf in as he walks unaware that he's about to die:

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away_  
><em>A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray<em>  
><em>Forget your woes and let your troubles lay<em>  
><em>And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.<em>

But for him there is no tomorrow.

Just like I've practiced, just like I've done hundreds of times before, I let the string slip through my fingers as my hand comes back to rest on my neck. I wait till the arrow is clear, before I move and I load again in case I miss.

But true to its course, the arrow pierces Horcaf's back. I can hear the sound of shock from here as I lower my bow. His hands fly out to the side and he falls like he's in slow motion. I'm struck by how much he looks like a running child that's fallen, but there is no mother here to pick him up and kiss away his wounds.

We pick up our stuff and move towards him, keeping an eye out for anyone that could come up on us. But no one is in the vicinity, so we remained unbothered. It isn't until we almost reach him that his cannon fires.

I kneel in the heavy grass beside him, his wide eyes are staring. His fingers clutch at the grass like a small child to a mother's skirt that offers protection from the world. There's a thin trickle of blood down his mouth.

_Here it's safe and here it's warm_  
><em>And here the daisies guard you from every harm<em>  
><em>And here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true<em>  
><em>Here is the place where I love you<em>.

I close his eyes firmly, and I salute his death and sacrifice in the ways of District Twelve—even if it was not a willing sacrifice. We search him for weapons and supplies, but all he has is a knife. I remove the arrow from his back and clean it in the soft grass as I look at him one final time.

He's my first kill in these games—the first to be outright hunted. I killed him without giving him the option of fighting back or resisting. It's not honourable, but nonetheless it was the right thing to do. But I can't stop staring at him, I engrain his face into my memories so that I will never forget what the Capitol has done to us. We escaped the horror of wars and gave up so that we were not destroyed. But just like always, the Capitol twisted itself until it found new ways of punishing us after promising peace.

…

Shortly after we left, a hovercraft came in to pick up Horcaf's body. I guess it wouldn't do to have his body rotting and ruining the Capitol's view of the Games. I can't even pretend to understand them.

The day goes on. Nothing much else happens, except for the sound of a cannon an hour or so after Horcaf's. I have no idea whose it is or if we'll ever know. There's not really anyway of knowing out here who's left or why or who did it.

Night begins to fall and we find a tree up against a rocky cliff. It provides two ways of escape—down the tree to the ground or across a branch and up to the top of the cliff. We sit a few branches apart and eat our burnt food. We hydrate heavily and take turns going back down the tree to get another bottle of water from the stream twenty yards away. The more water we drink at night, the less likely we'll sweat it all out without getting its nourishing affects.

We don't talk much, it's not needed and we're both a bit emotionally exhausted from the day. The night is chill and our voices carry on the wind, so even if we were inclined there's no reason we should talk.

It's just beginning to turn deep night, when the sound of another cannon booms. There's thirty minutes of silence and then another booms. The hollow echoes reverberate in the darkness. I feel my mouth go dry worrying if it's its Canta or Victoria. Not even the Games can convince me that either one of them is my enemy when I have a lifetime of them to prove otherwise. But we made a promise, whoever wins wins. There is no grudges, no hate—only the hope that it doesn't come down to us in the end.

…

Alaric and I are both startled when the night sky becomes illuminated. The announcer explains what's going on. Apparently, the gamemakers thought we should know who we were going to face in the arena—which of us are left. So every night they will announce no details of the death, only who died starting with the lower districts first.

The first picture that shows up in the night sky is a death we didn't know about. Ilsa Croushorn from District Three shows up. It's hard to believe that the distracted and chatty girl is gone. It was only yesterday that I saw her leaping from subject to subject with her partner Gustavo. But to be honest, I knew that neither of them had any chance. It's only when the next picture shows up that I realize he somehow escaped his inevitable fate.

Elvira Tubbs of District Five is the next face up which means Victoria is safe. I saw Elvira down on the ground, so I don't find it shocking to see her or her partner up there. Synoton Salyer's picture resides in the sky, and I remember how he futilely tried to kill the one who killed him.

I can feel the burn of tears in my eyes as Hannah Gorecki's face comes up in the sky. The picture makes the girl from six look a little more mature than normal, but not by much. I'll always think of her as a sweet, innocent child. She cared to make a stand and it was she they chose to punish, not me. There isn't even a body to take back to her parents. I am responsible for her death; there is no doubt in my mind.

The next photo is the one that shocks me, probably shocks most of the other tributes—Ordan Modzelewski from District Eight. She doesn't smile in her picture; I know that she refused to smile for her "coffin picture" as she called it. Even in the photo, you can see how much strength and pure raw energy she possessed. It's hard to believe that such a vital life source was killed so early.

The next photo that appears in the air isn't that shocking. I doubted that District Eight's Senda Dames would last very long, and knowing that Ordan died today too only confirms that he would be dead. He wouldn't have been able to survive without her. He was small, almost as small as Hannah. I hope that he died first, so that he didn't have to think protecting him was what caused her death.

The truth is, whoever killed Ordan had to be strong—brutally strong, or in a pack. That makes me most sense actually, Districts One, Two, and Four were sticking together, so it's more likely they came upon her as a pack—but if I know Ordan, at least one of them got pretty injured from that ordeal. She would have never gone down without a fight.

Penelope Ziemann shows up next. She's the one that was abandoned by her partner—left to fend for herself at the Cornucopia. Before I had felt rage and anger that it had happened to her, but in the end—it made it easier to kill her partner.

Horcaf Bunge, also from nine, shows up in sky. I look into the eyes of his photograph. I killed him today. He laid face down in the meadow with my arrow in his back. The last few minutes of his life, he lived alone.

I should feel something—like regret or distaste…but I don't. I just feel tired. I've killed before, and I'll kill again. I am sorry that he died, but I'm not sorry that I killed him. It was a choice between Alaric and mine's survival versus his. Principles are all well and good when you're not making someone else die for yours. He's dead, and I'll live with it. But what's most important for right now is that I will live with it.

The announcements fade from the sky and what little light it brought is distinguished. The night settles in like a cloak around us and I'm left alone with my thoughts. This is just the beginning of the games, and they're already pushing us hard. I know that they plan to break us; they want to destroy us completely. Right now, I'm pretty sure it's working.


	9. Echo

**Was hoping to have this up hours ago, but my mom came over to help me with a few things. Sorry about that. I still feel kind of crappy-ish, but not as bad. So...yay!**

**Anyways, in case anyone wonders, I almost ALWAYS listen to The Civil Wars when I'm writing these chapter. About 90% of the time, I'm listening to "20 Years". It helps me to write this, the music-not even the words kind of get me going for this.**

**The song mentioned in the story is an old mountain song called "Death is But a Dream". **

**Thanks for FlameSaybre03 for being my beta for this chapter. Also overdue shout-out to my friend Lauren for choosing a good deal of the last names for all of the characters since I suck at last names. **

**Hope everyone enjoys this chapter and checks out Tears of Blood which I'm partially in charge of now. It will also be updated on Saturday, along with this.**

**Johanna's next chapter will be coming out in a few hours (I need food) and then on Saturday. After that the three times a week updates SHOULD be back on!**

**Thanks for understanding! Much love to you guys ^_^**

_**And in the naked light I saw**_  
><em><strong>Ten thousand people, maybe more<strong>_  
><em><strong>People talking without speaking<strong>_  
><em><strong>People hearing without listening<strong>_  
><em><strong>People writing songs that voices never share<strong>_  
><em><strong>And no one dared<strong>_  
><em><strong>Disturb the sound of silence<strong>_

_**"Fools", said I, "You do not know**_  
><em><strong>Silence like a cancer grows<strong>_  
><em><strong>Hear my words that I might teach you<strong>_  
><em><strong>Take my arms that I might reach you"<strong>_  
><em><strong>But my words, like silent raindrops fell<strong>_  
><em><strong>And echoed<strong>_  
><em><strong>In the wells of silence<strong>_

_**Sounds of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel**_

Even though we're both attuned to waking at any sound, we'd be remiss to not have one of us keeping watch. I choose to take the first watch, and Alaric accepts it without a word. He understands that I need time alone with my thoughts—that I need to process what's happened today.

I silently try to say goodbye to those who are gone. I remember our small interactions; I remember how we came to know each other. One by one I close the book on their life and put my thoughts of them in a drawer to be examined at a time when I'm not in battle. I can't bear to think of them out here right now.

I honour their deaths, their sacrifices both here and in our Rebellion. It's now that my mind starts to wonder, was it worth it? What was accomplished by our fight for freedom? Nothing, nothing at all. District Thirteen was destroyed, and here we all are worse off than ever before. We're forced to starve. Already the children of my district are wasting away. What kind of life will they have if they're not even strong enough to do the work to make the money they need to survive? How selfish and closed off will they become when they can't spare food for a starving friend? How warped and small will their hearts become from closing people out, afraid that friends or family will ask too much of them?

That's not even speaking about this—this _game_. They make us fight to the death, and they call it a game like its fun or trivial. They make it like it's something we could enjoy to fight for—like the prize of being rich and loved by our slavers is something we would actually die to achieve. Who are they fooling? Not us. Not anyone with sense. But does the Capitol have sense? Do the people of the Capitol understand what they are doing to us? Do they understand that we're real human beings and not some numbers or beasts fighting for their entertainment?

But that's all we are. We're beasts who incited a Rebellion after the precious Capitol kept us alive and safe in their eyes. We're rebelling against what's good for us, and so we must be kept in check. How long have their eyes been averted by a magician, an illusionist that makes them see freedom in their own cages?

Somehow, in a way, I feel sorry for them more than us. They're convinced we're the backwards ones. At least we see our chains; at least we know we're prisoners to the Capitol—to President Rubel's will. But they are convinced they're free, how can I prove to them that they're not?

I can't think of a way, not right now, to make them see that they are just as much slaves as I am. I hope if ever, there is another Rebellion that they will not make our mistake. Being destroyed was the threat that made us surrender, but wouldn't it have been better than this? Better than letting these monsters control us? We should have fought and died to the last man if that's what it took. Even if it was only in death we would have had freedom.

Maybe the real fault of all of this is ours; we should have told them we wouldn't surrender or go back. We should have let them know that they would be the ones to surrender—because we couldn't. We would rather be destroyed than give in to them again. But we gave in, letting them realize that life was more important than freedom. Now it's the way they keep us subjugated. We've given them the power and the knowledge to enslave us forevermore. Only when we decide we'd rather die than give up, that we will see this through to the end—that'll be the time when we have a chance to beat them.

The chances that Alaric or I will be around to see it is slim. The chances that it comes sometime in the next century are infinitesimal. I just can't help but hope again that someone will spark a rebellion and urge for freedom that won't be squelched even by the fear of death. I want them to remember me. I want them to remember that I stopped fighting; I chose life. I want them to remember that under the Capitol your life is never your own. They can, and will, take it from you at any moment. I want them to remember Hannah.

My eyes go to the sky and find that three hours have passed—the time we've agreed to switch at. There's not been a sound or any movement suggesting that anyone or anything other than normal night movements are near. I call out softly to Alaric, and he answers immediately. "My turn?" His voice is low, but it carries even though it's just a whisper. It feels nice to know that I'm not alone here. But that's selfish—I wish he had no reason to be here.

"Yes," I reply as I pull up the collar of my jacket in preparation for sleep.

His voice floats back, "Don't worry Emera. Things are going to be okay. Remember the promise?" I can't help but smile. There's no need to reply as there's no way I could forget it. We were just kids back then, but we had promised that we'd never stop watching out for each other. It feels good to be reminded of that promise here when everyone else is striving to kill us. There's someone at least, who's with me—until the end.

….

The sound of Alaric's voice is what brings me back to consciousness. My eyes flash open quickly to access the area around me, but it's safe. It's still dark—about four AM, time for us to get up and prepare to go.

I stretch my shoulders to loosen up the stiff joints from sitting in a tree all night. My bones grate in the joints and my skin shifts as the scar tissue aches. I move silently to the ground where Alaric is adjusting his weapons and stretching. I eat my meal quickly, just a small portion before we head to the stream.

We gorge ourselves on water. We both take time washing our face and neck, then our feet. We don't have time to take a more conventional bath right now, but it's best to keep our faces clear from dirt and caked sweat and our feet happy with all the walking we'll have to do. Everything else can wait a few days, even if it's not…preferred.

We leave the water behind us, and move through the darkness like shadows. It's not even five yet and we're putting the miles between us and where we stayed. No good can come of staying still. We keep ourselves armed and ready—it's tiring, but it could be the difference between life and death.

I highly doubt that we're the only ones up and moving already. Only the foolish—the less trained would still be sleeping. Almost as if someone heard my thoughts, the lonely echo of a cannon goes off. Another life snuffed out so easily. This is what we fought for.

Anger is enabling and empowering—but it is also dangerous. It flows through my body so wildly that I find it hard to focus—to pay attention to what's going on around me. Finally, we're forced to stop. I'm shaking with rage so acute it colours my vision. I'm about to lose control.

Alaric stands there as I stand absolutely still and breathe. I want to scream, I want to curse. I want to yell at the Gamemakers and the Capitol. I want them to know what I think of them. But every time my mouth opens to spill out the words, all that comes is silence.

The last time I spoke out they killed Hannah. I know that if I do it again they know how to break me. They'll kill Alaric who stands beside me. I hate them for it because they've taken my freedom, they're taking my life, and now they're taking my words. I'm becoming voiceless. The only power I have left against them has to be in check or they'll kill Alaric who stands beside me. They know it and I know it.

I force the anger down inside of myself. I force myself to concentrate and think of Cristoff. I force myself to think of Alexia who will worry because I came for her. But most of all I think of Hannah right as her eyes widen before she disintegrated. That's the image that keeps me from speaking my mind—the reminder of what they will do to Alaric. So for now, I will hold my tongue.

…

It's well past noon when we rest again. We build a small, smokeless fire after building stones around it to block the blaze. I stoke the fire and coax it while Alaric heads off to hunt our meal. I'm not that concerned with his absence. I know he won't go too far and that he can take care of himself.

It's then that I notice the birds have stopped singing suddenly. They break off and mid-tune. I'm on my feet with a nocked arrow. I use my eyes and my ears to determine where the unknown presence is.

Minutes pass and nothing happens. But I know something is out there—no, someone. I don't call out or move. I keep as still as I can, listening for whatever it is. Finally, I hear it.

It sounds like something is being dragged. No, that's wrong. The word dragged doesn't quite fit what's happening. It's like…it's slower, more labored or…pained. The word leaps to my mind—crawling. It's someone crawling, inching their way forward—likely wounded.

I keep still and listen as the sound comes closer. I want nothing more than to run to the sound since it could be Alaric. But that action could be my last. I hold my ground as the anxiety thickens in my throat and causes my stomach to churn. It burns the line of my esophagus with worry for Alaric as my muscles grow pained in the poised position.

Then the dragging stops and the ragged voice spills out with anguish, "Emera?"

I force myself not to run to him. It's been hard enough being in this arena with Alaric knowing that my friends would have to die for us to come home—but this, this is another kind of pain. In some ways it is both deeper and more desperate because he is my blood though we were not raised together for long.

I move gently forward as I call his name, "Tristan, I'm here."

"Over here," he calls it out in the stillness. I know he's no threat to me as I put my arrow down. I move to the sound of where his voice came from and find him barely able to lift his head from the ground.

I roll him over onto his back. His face is pale and his body clearly proves why. The contents of his stomach are nearly spilling out. What's worse is it's filled with dirt and debris from his crawling—not that it matters; he won't make it much longer. I don't bother to move him as I kneel beside him. My fire is still in view, still sheltered.

"It's okay Tristan," I scoop his head into my lap and watch as his face pales further. "I won't leave you," his hand finds his way into mine.

He shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, "Elvira told me they've been making these things called muttations for the past year. Mutated creatures—mutts. She didn't know why until now. They're being put into the arena to hunt us. She warned me the night before the games, but it didn't do me much good. It was part cougar, part…I don't know what. It had one clawed front foot and one pawed. It did this, but I got it in the end. I didn't want to die alone. I hoped it'd be you I'd find."

I look into the grey eyes so much like mine, son of the aunt that moved to District six to stay with the man she loved. He is my flesh and blood, my cousin—a secret we'd never discussed because it was something else they could use against us if they didn't know already. This is the boy I played with—that I looked forward to seeing whenever we were together. He shares my eyes, my skin—the lost connection between my mother and I after her death. He lost his mother in the Rebellion too. And now I'm going to lose him.

I stroke his head and look into the eyes of one of the few family members I have left. I don't know what to say to him except, "I'm sorry for Hannah." I feel the tears burn a path down my cheeks.

"Don't. You did nothing wrong Emera. You gave her hope—that's nothing to be sorry for. Someday, someone will remember that. Someday, someone will hear your words and they will mean something." The slick blood on his hands causes his fingers to continue slipping through mine. I stroke his head as he speaks to me in his soft voice that begins to fail. He tells me of things that have happened in the past years; he tells me he's proud of what I did. "It would have made our mother's proud."

My tears slide off my nose and down onto his skin, and he tries to stop them even though he's the one dying. His fingers are starting to fail as Alaric comes up and kneels beside us. "Do you remember that song, Emera?" His eyes stare wide, and I know that his sight has left him.

"The ones are mother sang about…" I trail off suddenly.

"About death," he pauses for a moment before his voice recites the lines:

_"Sadly we sing and with tremulous breath, As we stand by the mystical stream_  
><em>In the valley and by the dark river of death, And yet 'tis no more than a dream<em>

_Only a dream, only a dream, Of glory beyond the dark stream_  
><em>How peaceful the slumber, how happy the waking, Where death is only a dream."<em>

By the time he says the last words he can barely speak. "Do you thi-think it's true?" I have to lean close to hear him. "Do you think they're right?"

I give him the most honest answer I can, "I hope so Tristan."

I can barely control the sobs now, "I think so too. I think…I can almost hear her voice again."

"Go to her Tristan. Don't wait here with me," I kiss his forehead gently as he closes his eyes. "It's okay to go."

"Thank you," he exhales one last time.

…

When we burn the food enough to be done, we leave. I feel tired and heavy. My whole body seems dull and miserable. Back home my grandmother is mourning the loss of her only other grandchild. She and I are all that's left of my mother.

In my dull haze we come up on the tributes Fern and Fergus from seven. Our reactions are instantaneous. Though bloody, they lunge at us with fevour. It's difficult to block his blow as he rains down his strength on me. He's skilled with an axe and strong. He's not a child of District Seven for nothing.

Fern fights with Alaric but I have no time or inclination to check on them. Blow after blow glances off me as I fight and twist with him with my own axe and a small knife. His foot work is clumsy but he can move the axe much more deftly than I can. We weave and dart around each other, and he pushes me back more often than I can do to him.

Fergus backs me up over and over again. The sound of the cannon booms and I can see on his face how quickly he wants this to end, and I feel the urgency too. Who's left? Is it Alaric or is it Fern?

No sound comes to tell us who it is. No voice shouts out that they're okay. That's when the next cannon booms. For a moment, we both falter and stare at each other. Are they both dead? Did someone somewhere else die now? I scream out at the same time as him.

"Alaric!"

"Fern!"

But there is no answer.


	10. Exhaustion

**Next update Wednesday. Johanna will be updated Monday/Tuesady and Tears of Blood will be updated on Tuesday!**

"_**I would rather be ashes than dust!  
>I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.<br>I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.  
>The function of man is to live, not to exist.<br>I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.  
>I shall use my time."<br>― Jack London**_

There's no sound but Fergus and I breathing. Not a bird, not a voice—nothing.

No one answers. I can feel my pulse pounding louder in my ears as we clash against each other again. The force with which we meet makes my bones rattle. He's expert at this weapon, and he gains ground quickly. He keeps pushing me back further, opening up knicks and cuts.

Even during the tensest moments of struggle one of us is screaming a name. His cries are fiercer, more frightened. I find it hard to keep the terror out of my voice, until finally we both fall silent. What use is there to call for them when no one can answer?

It's against my nature to continue this fight right now. If Alaric is gone, there is no reason to keep fighting. I've only fought for him. Even though I love Cristoff, I don't know that I could give up my beliefs to fight to come home to him if Alaric's life did not depend on it too. If Alaric is gone…if he's dead, then I'd quit this game. I'd let my life be a sacrifice for what I believe in. But some part of me hopes and believes that Alaric is alive. It's not over until you see a face in the sky, at least that's what I keep telling myself.

My muscles grow heavier and it's hard to continue fighting when I know that likely Alaric is dead…but I can't give up until I know. Fergus swings out at me, his axe cutting through my shirt and all the way across my stomach. I feel the blood slipping down my shirt as I lunge back at him before he can bring it around. I bring my axe up to block him from coming around again. For a moment, we are locked. My eyes are even with his, and I can see the beads of sweat on his brow as he's pushing with all his strength back at me.

"Sorry," I breathe. The shock of it hits him. His eyes look at me in confusion, and he stares at me the sweat still dripping down his face and the muscles still creased in concentration. The pressure in his arm lessens, and his axe falls from his hands slowly as he starts to stagger backwards. I let go of my own axe and wrap my arm around him to help him lower to the ground. It's only then that I realize my left hand is still on the handle of the blade in his stomach.

His heart pumps the blood out and over my hand as I move it away from the wound. I lay him down gently, and he looks at me as his face pales until the cannon booms. I close my eyes too tired or weak to give him the honour he deserves right now. I need to find out if Alaric or Fern are alive first—I can't think or rest until then. I just…can't.

I gather up the weapons as my hands begin to shake. I say a silent goodbye as I walk back the way to where Alaric was. As I get closer, I see her body. Fern's eyes are bright and staring toward the sky—a frothy pile of blood pooled near her lips. And there, a few feet away…Alaric.

The sob catches in my throat as I move towards him. I fall to my knees as I let out a sob. He's face down, and there's blood all over his head. I reach out my hands, but I can't stop the shaking in them. I can't bring myself to touch the blood—his blood. I've seen it before, but not his…not like this.

The sob breaks out of my throat finally, and I try to stifle it with my hands. I can't focus, as the tears fill my eyes. I cross my arms across my chest and hold on to myself tightly before I keep sobbing. I reach out my shaking hands to him again. I was too late for him…

My fingers touch his pale skin and I feel the warmth still which makes be sob harder. My chest aches with the pain of it, my heart has shattered into a thousand pieces. What few moments or days of my life will I have to endure in this pain with him dead?

I brush back a lock of his dark hair, and touch the moist blood of his wound. My fingers leap away in shock when I feel the thrum of pulse at his temple. I can't breathe, I can't process. My mind seems to be overloading as my fingers find the artery in his neck. I can feel the slow rhythm of his pulse. My hands move down until I situate my head against his chest. His heart thrums there, slower than it should be but real... He's alive!

I begin to sob for different reasons. Through my tears, I try to find a way to stop the bleeding. I whisper to Alaric, try to bring him around but nothing happens. What if he doesn't wake up? What if I've found him just for him to die?

The hours go by as we lay in the opening. His breathing is steady, his pulse grows faint and then strong. I can't stop myself from staring at him—from obsessing over him. I wait for an eyelash flutter, for a whisper or a moan-but nothing whatsoever happens.

…

Hours go by without him moving or doing anything. I clean his wounds, but I'm hesistant to move him even though we're in a small clearing. Ultimately, I just keep watch as my apprehension grows.

The white bandage sticks out against his dark skin, and the crimson stain grows brighter and his face paler as I set his head in my lap. The night falls and my eyes are growing tired as I keep watch on him. Still nothing happens.

The seal of the Capitol appears in the sky, and the faces appear quickly. Gustavo from three, Tristan from six, Fern and Fergus from seven, and then Gem from eleven. Just like that…all gone. Gem had had a chance, she was warm and friendly—she was well liked and at ease. But none of that explains what has happened to Alaric.

Over the hours, I've tried to piece together what happened while we were separated. Obviously, Fern and Alaric had fought. It's also obvious that one of the two cannons that fired was Fern's. The other cannon had to be either Gustavo's or Gem's. The foot imprints around Alaric's body were heavy—and only one pair. The most likely candidate would be Harvest.

He's heavy enough and by then alone if it was Gem who had been killed earlier. If…If…If. If he had come up on Alaric alone, he would have killed him. I know that as sure as I know myself. Kind and sweet Harvest might be, but he would kill to go home. So why was Alaric alive…at least, for now? What could have stopped him from killing them outright?

The answer is so simple that is' glaring me in the face. Of course, Fergus and I both screamed for our partners. Harvest wouldn't have had time to kill him without risking his own life. My call could be what saved Alaric's life. I had, after all, made the right decision by choosing not to give up.

…

My eyes burn with the effort of keeping them open when Alaric starts to moan. It's another fifteen minutes before his eyes flutter open and wince at me in the darkness. "I'm here, Alaric. I'm here," I breathe softly unable to stop the tears of happiness from rolling down my face.

"Last thing, I remember…" His brow furrows as he tries to concentrate. "Fern was dead and then, I felt pain…and nothing." He keeps very still, "How long have I been out?"

"Twelve hours at least," I wipe at the tears in my eyes. "I was afraid you wouldn't wake up."

"I thought you were dead, when I heard the cannon." He pauses looking up into the sky, before closing his eyes again. "Who?"

"Besides for Fern and Fergus, Gem and Gustavo were the other ones. Then, we know about Tristan."

He pushes himself up gently while supporting his head, "Yeah... I don't think I've said, but I'm sorry."

I look down at my hands, "It's okay. It was always going to be me or him."

"At least you didn't have to be the one to kill him. At least, it was someone else."

"It's small consolation, he's still just as dead." I pull myself to my tired feet, "Do you think you can walk a ways? We need to find somewhere we can be safer than this."

"I think so," I help Alaric to his feet. For a moment, he sways and almost loses his balance. It's everything he can do to focus and not fall over while I pick up our stuff. The load is heavy, but he's too weak at the moment to carry anything without falling over. I help guide him through the woods as we make as little sound as humans can.

As we walk, he gets heavier and heavier. Finally, it's nearly dawn when I find a place that's acceptable for a rest of at least a day, maybe two. It's similar to our first camping spot. The stream is only about twenty yards away. We're backed up against a cliff with enough footholds to climb out so that we're not cornered. Alaric collapses against the cliff heavily as I give him the water. He drinks it thirstily as I weave a shelter out of living tree limbs. It'll offer protection enough from sun and rain.

I set out the food for him to eat, and he submits to me. He doesn't like that I'm taking care of him, but he allows it. He hates it just as much as I hated it when he took care of me before. I fill up our water and bring it back. It's going to be a long night, and despite my dislike of it—we're going to have to sleep on the ground and at the same time.

I settle in next to him, and fall asleep quickly.

…

When I wake up, Alaric is still asleep beside me. The sun is high in the sky. It's not the first time I've woken up, but this is the time I've chosen to stay awake. My body is exhausted and resistant to movement but I move anyways. I drink a whole bottle of water and go to retrieve more.

I walk around in the water with my boots off for a few minutes, before washing out my socks and laying them out to dry. I clean the dirt and blood from my various abrasions. The cool water brings a sort of freshness to me and my sleep deprived body. Even though it's probably not smart, I peel off my clothes and wash quickly. I don't even bother to wash my clothes—only my body. I know my clothes are probably a breeding ground for bacteria, but it's safer for me to not take the time to wash them with Alaric already in his exhausted and wounded state. I get back dressed feeling slightly refreshed even in the dingy clothes.

I make my way back to Alaric with fresh water. He squints at me in the sunlight, but otherwise doesn't move. I hand him the water and convince him to drink as much as he wants. I force him to eat despite feealing sick. After making another trek to the stream, I settle down to clean his wounds.

I clean off all of his small cuts and scratches—the deepest of which runs across his arm. I let him know I'll be gone for water and maybe herbs. I make my way back to the stream and take a look around. As we've walked, I've noticed wild garlic. I'd been foolish to not gather some until now. I gather as much as I can carry with the water bottle and make my way back to Alaric.

I place all of the garlic in our bags but one. Taking the knife, I cut it into thin slices. Taking a piece of gauze, I lay it over the wound before putting the garlic on top of it. Placing another bandage across so that it'll stay in place. It's an old remedy that we've learned to improvise with. Garlic can draw out infections—obviously, nothing is as good as antibiotics for something really bad. But something like this can easily be taken care of with garlic—easy to find.

I take out a few of the leaves of peppermint we've found, and use them to treat his headache. It's likely he's got a concussion—he needs to rest and not jar himself but…there's no guaranteed amount of time I can give him.

At any moment we could be force to move or fight. I have to do all I can to make him well—quickly. It's part of the reason he doesn't fight it. Right now, he's practically useless with his inability to think or move fast.

We spend the day with him napping, eating and drinking. I hunt some and try to figure out what we're going to do. At the most we have a day longer we can stay here without drawing attention—at the least maybe an hour or two. The prey is easy to kill and clean. I burn it again intentionally why Alaric sleeps.

I watch his troubled face, and I know how much Amelia must be worrying about him. I can't imagine what she's felt as she's watched us. I can't imagine what Cristoff must be feeling…It's one thing to fight together, but to watch the person you love having to fight alone where you can't help? It must be unbearable.

I can imagine how I'd feel if it was Cristoff here instead. I'd go out of my mind trying to help him, wishing I was there to fight with him. It's just another form of torture the Capitol gets off on.

The day passes again without too much going on. He's feeling somewhat better. Tomorrow, we'll hone the skill he's had to see how affected he is still. He stops squinting as much and finally feels like walking around a bit.

By the time the seal comes up in the sky, he's been down to the stream by himself without my support. Quickly, he falls asleep and I don't bother him. His body needs the rest, needs the time to heal.

No faces greet us in the sky.

The next day starts the same. Alaric stretches and moves around better, his head is still painful but his arm is feeling much better. Sudden movements make him lose balance, but he can stay upright—a vast improvement.

As the sun sets again, Alaric's archery and throwing is only slightly off. He'll be fine to move and to fight if need be.

There have been no cannons today. The sky confirms it, and I start to worry. We must be boring for them watching…I don't want to know how they plan to make us less so.


	11. Insight

**_"We have to realize that we are as deeply afraid to live and to love as we are to die."_**

**_Ronald David Laing_**

Alaric is exhausted as the sun goes down. He can barely keep his eyes open. I know he's struggling hard for me to stay awake and do well. He's fighting so hard against his body's natural inclination to rest and heal.

The shadows grow long as the sun disappears. The sky remains a dusky twilight that fades from pinks and purples to the somber dark blue. Every star is shining in the sky brighter than I've ever seen them before. It's as if somehow they're magnifying it.

I'm worried about these "muttations" that Tristan told me about. My heart gives an ache at the thought of him. He's gone on…He's just…gone. I can't think about that or process what happens after death. I can't go into beliefs or hopes. I can't deal with any of that right now. All I can do is just go past it to what can save us now. Muttations. Creatures that have been heavily mutated. It's obvious that there most be different kinds, but is there a common flaw? Can they be controlled?

They're good questions, but ones I can't possibly even hope to answer. But I muse on them anyways as Alaric falls asleep beside me, his brow creased with that familiar headache. Something catches my eye, something that seems to float down in a blurr of silver and white.

I'm prepared to attack it, but there's nothing to attack. It's little parachute with a small cylinder attached. I don't dare touch it, or get closer to it. I don't even move as a loud voice amplifies and comes from every corner of the arena.

"After special consideration, an outpouring of fans for this highly successful first installment of the Hunger Games." I feel sick at the sound of his voice and how our murdering each other is a "good" game. "It's been decided that the tributes can have patrons to buy them gifts." It sinks in as I look at the silken white—_parachute. _

The word springs to my mind as I reach out and touch it. "Each of you needs something, so please accept this free gift from your patrons to help you on your way. Happy Hunger Games tributes!"

What do we need? I tear off the parachute and undo the cylinder, noting Alaric sitting up beside me squinting his eyes. I need something to make him better. That's what I need. I spill the contents out and there's a bottle. I stare at it uncertainly in the dim light of the moon. I raise it up to the heavens to try to read the bottle. Barely discernable it says something about "concussions".

Leave it to the Capitol to have even a treatment for this. I spill the contents out into my hand—one solitary green pill. I'm hesitant to give it to him. What if it's a trick? But what choice do I have? How long will we make it if it isn't something good? But the thing that decides it is there's nothing they can really gain by poisoning him. Sure it would kill him, but what entertainment value? What use?

I hand the pill to Alaric, "Take this. It'll help."

He looks at me hesitantly. "Are you sure?" I nod my head to him, and he pops the pill into his mouth without another question.

At first nothing happens, he doesn't feel any different at all. I force him to eat some more food and drink plenty of water. It's after thirty minutes that he starts to feel its effects. He fights against the pull of sleep, trying desperately to stay awake—perhaps, like me, afraid of what the drugs will do if he submits. But I soothe him, I let him know its okay to let go. I'm here to protect him, let the drugs do their healing.

Finally, he goes under. He doesn't move or respond. It's like he's in a deep, deep sleep and beyond my hearing. I keep telling myself that the drugs are healing his head—that this isn't a trick. The whole thing just makes me sick.

Anxious minutes give way to anxious hours. Anxious waiting gives away to pacing. Finally, the acid in my stomach churns enough that it comes up burning the lining of my esophagus. I spill out the entire contents of my meal from earlier. The chunks of burnt meat feel worse coming up than going down. The acrid taste and smell of smoke burns my mouth and nostrils as if I'm breathing it in and not vomiting it up.

I feel weak and all I want to do is lay down with that weakness, but I pull myself back up onto my knees and away from my pool of sick. I crawl back to Alaric with my weapon in my hand. Setting my bow aside, I cradle him to me like a child—like some rag doll that my mother made with scraps of cloth in my childhood. I hold him to me and revel in his warmth—in the fact that his heart is beating strongly, only slower than normal because of sleep.

I hold the axe in one hand and his body in the other, as the shadows deepen. I try to hold on to myself to stay awake and conscious but it's difficult to do that—the only option of keeping me awake is to pick at the festering scabs of memories in my mind. Some are too painful even in a hell such as this, but there are others that my mind lingers on that are too sacred for this place—but I can't make them leave my mind. I want some light in this darkness, and I find it in these memories.

I remember the day of my birthday, the day to start the rebellion that Alaric was the one by my side when we took the communication tower. I remember the triumph we felt, my best friend and I, as we held it—two fifteen year olds waiting for reinforcements. I remember he was there when I found my mother had died. Alaric was the one to tell me to trust Cristoff that he was a "good man, a good soldier."

I was never the trusting sort. But very few things did I ever refuse Alaric, even though, I was ranked above him. He had no desire to lead—but a desire to follow, to do, to plan. I had the desire of doing, and I did even though I was urged not to. I was "too valuable" to our District. Much too valuable, I argued, to stay at home where it was safe. I lead my men everywhere—no matter the risks or the cost. I fought with them, I buried them—it's the least I could do when I was asking them to follow my lead and die for me if need be.

Alaric showed me that I needed to trust in men like Cristoff. I couldn't close out the world and protect myself. Getting to know my people wouldn't deter me or make me weak, it made me stronger. When I opened my mind to Cristoff, I opened my heart to my people. I understood what they were risking—I understood better than I had before the drives and motivations of men and women. That knowledge helped me to understand our enemy, to plan against them and know them as well as myself.

Each death I felt keenly, like a pin prick to the heart. Sometimes so many it stabbed and burned. Sometimes, I was desensitized to it and sometimes it overwhelmed me until I thought I would die from it.

It was easy to fall in love with Cristoff then. His arms were warm and welcoming. His voice kind and sweet, he had a gift—a way with words and singing that soothed my savage heart. The night he sang that song was the beginning of something that I couldn't' stop even though I saw it coming. I wanted to shut him out, but somehow he'd taken root and I couldn't get rid of him.

I thought I had felt passion before about the cause—about freedom. But when my lips touched his the whole world changed. Somehow, it transformed me. The passion I knew before was not at all like what I felt now. Now, I felt power and beauty in it—transforming and consuming. Eventually, over time as I fell further and faster I began to understand things no fifteen year old girl can understand when she's never been in love.

The further I fell for him, the more I thought of a future—a future without slavery where I would have children one day. One kiss had transformed my iron-hardness over time into that of a woman—at only sixteen. The desires to protect children years, maybe even decades away from being born. I understood more deeply than before and with that renewed vigor I found the strength and focus to drive my men forward into battle.

I still remember that kiss. No night can be cold when I think of it. No moment can be silent when I feel the thrumming of my heart in my ears when I think of it. Never can I look at a starry sky and not think of that kiss and how it transformed me into a woman in love—a woman who is fighting for a future other than just her own, a future she had never even considered before. That's what I owe Cristoff for loving me, that's what I owe Alaric for telling me to open up.

In silence, I protect Alaric as he has always protected me. It's what we do for each other—we do what's best, we do whatever the other asks of us. I stroke his hair and see his face unline over the hours. I think of Victoria and how she must be faring away from her daughter, Mel and her brand new husband. I think of the night she gave birth, so young and yet already so old after what the peacekeepers had down to her—back when they were called "soldiers" or "officers". Even since then their name has been downgraded as if we're troubling children who need to be kept in line.

I remember Canta wedding her husband on the eve of battle. I remember the heart touching ceremony, and the way they held on to each other the night before we thought we were going to die. Who would have known of their marriage but us? But it hadn't mattered that anyone knew but them. Tomorrows weren't promised—they were for fools to stupid to seize today.

My mind flits to moments in childhood, which were far more serious than any childhood memory should be, of Tristan and I. I recall that that last time I saw him smile was then, we were six. But I flit over the happy memories, even if we were serious faced kids.

Long into the night, I play with my memories until the dawn. Still nothing has happened. My eyes feel dreary, but I'm not trusting enough of the Capitol or their games to fall asleep. I can't allow myself to give in to my body, I've denied it before.

It's nearly ten in the morning when Alaric begins to stirs. I watch silently as he begins to move, it takes another twenty minutes before his eyes open up to the morning light. He doesn't blink in confusion, there's no haze to his eyes. His forehead is free of lines of pain. His headache is gone, I can see the clearness in his eyes.

I swallow hard, "Are you….better Alaric?"

"Yes," his hand touches my dark and dirty hair and lean my forehead against his. "You've taken care of me Emera, let me taker care of you." He brushes at the tears on my eyelashes that threaten to fall. I nod my head as he gets up and stretches. It's nice to see him whole again.

…

My eyes fly open right as I'm yanked forward and onto my feet. Alaric's eyes are wild as he shoves a bag, a bow and axe in my barely functioning hands. "We've got to go, something is coming."

He's off running, and I'm behind him. My legs are cramped and my limbs are heavy still. I can't have been asleep for more than an hour. My body refuses to function with the well-timed precision of Alaric's rested limbs, but I keep up with him despite that.

The heavy musky scent creeps up on us. It smells like decay and swamps, putrid and mildewed. The ground pulses behind us, and despite looking back we don't see them. It's best to find a better place to stand or out run them all together. I have a feeling these are the mutations that Tristan warned us about.

My body aches and I'm ready to collapse as the creatures funnel us into a valley. We can catch glimpses of their grey spiked and armoured bodies. They run on all fours and make grunting sounds as the move swiftly behind us with their heavy steps. As we get further in, we see that there are others here—others who are being forced into a confrontation with these creatures. There's Harvest—tall and broad, his smile falters for a moment when Alaric glares at him. Because he's the only obvious choice to have given Alaric his concussion. But it's Canta who draws my eyes. She moves toward me and wraps an arm around me without regard for her safety or her life.

She's pale face, exhausted looking and her eyes look rimmed with red as if she's been crying a lot. But Mikal is there beside her and safe, why would she be crying? "One more time Emera, we get to fight together."

"We've made other last stands," I hold her to me for a moment before I break away. We spread out a little with our backs against the wall in preparation for an attack. I gulp down water quickly, we all do. It's best to hydrate before the battle—who knows when next we can?

I can feel my muscles tensed, exhausted. Alaric is to my left and Canta to my right. Mikal is on her other side and Harvest on the other side of Mikal. I balances on the balls of my feet and shift my weight back and forth as the mutations come into view. They're horrid. The putrid smell, just as we assumed, comes from them. They're long, fat looking creatures. Low to the ground they run like wolves, but on closer approach some of them walk on their hind legs like bears. The whole body is covered with a kind of armour like skin with tiny spikes all over. Their teeth are small, but razor-sharp.

As if by some unseen command they attack all at once. I'm overwhelmed at first, my whole body is jolted by the force of them. My thoughts can't even focus for long as I spin and weave around. One attacks from the left, another from the right—another from the ground and one even launches itself from a height.

I swing the axe even though my arms get heavier and heavier with each swing. My eyes are so heavy I feel like I could fall asleep if not for the adrenaline coursing through my body—amplifying me and pushing me further than I thought my body could go. I don't know how long it goes on. It feels like days or weeks. Each time I think can't manage another swing, and another creature comes at me and I find the strength to dispel it.

A cannon booms loudly in my ears and I'm jolted by the suddenness of it, by who it could be that I can't shield the razor like teeth from clamping onto my side and holding on. I swing and hack at it's body from odd angles, but it crunches me tighter and I'm afraid my ribs are cracked or they're cracking. I let out a half-scream as I finally sever it's head from it's body. Yet, even then it takes a few seconds for the teeth to relax and let me go.

Another cannon booms as I swing an axe and then as suddenly as they came they're just gone. I watch as the turn to ash before my very eyes and blow away in the wind. I fall to the ground in pain, trying to process what's happening in my dull mind. I glance to the left and I see standing some blood on him but seemingly not his own. He's by me within a minute as I clutch at my side, but I send him to the others—they're all down.

Only a glace shows that Harvest is dead. His body bloodied enough that any other possibility was unreasonable. Canta begins to stir…the other cannon was Mikal's. I see the pain on Canta's face as she struggles to her feet. She takes a deep breath as she stands not moving her left arm—it's bloody and dislocated.

"Emera," her voice breaks my heart as I pull myself up toward her. Alaric has just confirmed that nothing can be done for the others. "He was the first Emera, I fought to help you survive this. I wanted to give up and die." She holds out a hand as tears stream down her face. "I've helped you to live, now help me to end my life." There's urgency in her face as she looks at me, as she implores me to do it.

I bit my lip and try to hold in the pain from slipping out. Her voice continues on begging me, "I can't go home alone Emera. I can't…there's nothing left. I lost the baby…two days ago after I fell. I lost…I lost…" She sobs, and my heart breaks for the child who was forced to die in this arena by forcing it's mother to play. It had always been her dream—that child, and I knew she wouldn't ever want to live without it. "They've taken Mikal, they've taken our baby Emera. Give me death, don't let me suffer more at their hands."

She lets out a sob and her body lurches forward with the pain of it before she straightens up. "I love you, Emera. I love you."

I bite my lip as I wrap my arms tightly around myself. Just like that without warning, without making her suffer Alaric places his hands on her neck. His hands jerk quickly and the cannon sounds before he can move his hands away. She crumples like a rag doll, her broken neck leaning at a slightly odd angle.

"I love you, too Canta…" I fall to the ground sobbing. I think they've finally broken me.


	12. Keening

_****_**Sorry this is late. I HATE to update when alerts are down. Almost every time I do, the chapter doesn't post and I have to delete and redo it. So anyways, sorry this is late.**

**Two more chapters till...the end. Brace yourself. Special note, this whole thing has been planned-every little aspect from the moment I started writing it and was all determined before I ever wrote a line.**

**Phoenix update will be up later this afternoon when I make sure updates are working properly . *kicks FF***

_**"I don't remember what they said, only the fury of their words, how the air turned raw and full of welts. Later it would remind me of birds trapped inside a closed room, flinging themselves against the windows and the walls, against each other."**_  
><em><strong>― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees<strong>_

I rock back and forth on my knees, hugging myself tightly. The sobs tear from my throat without my consent. My whole body throbs with the pain of it and I hold on to myself tighter.

I'm losing myself.

I sob until it's difficult to breathe, an awful wailing that seems to pour forth from some well of pain beside me. My grandmother called it keening. It's what you do when someone you love dies. I'd thought it was ridiculous, but now…I understand. I understand that depth of despair that makes you cry without wanting to, that makes your pain a spectacle to everyone else.

Yet, I don't care. I can't seem to care what anyone thinks. None of them in their comfy homes watching this can understand what I feel—none of them at all. I hold on to myself knowing that I am completely at the mercy of the Gamemakers despite my best efforts. I am not my own. I am controlled, I am used.

I feel again that thing I felt before when I thought Alaric was dead. Suddenly, I wonder how many more pointless hours will I have to endure before I die? How many more hours in this horrid pain that both numbs your heart and rips it wide open? Why does the very pain of it not kill me? Dying couldn't hurt as bad as this…but how can I be alive with this pain?

I am hopeless.

It's that last thought that helps rouse me from my mind some. I can't buckle under to them. I can't give in. For the first time in the games, I want to survive. I want to prove to them no matter what they throw at me I can overcome it—even if I don't really want to live beyond this.. They cannot destroy me. But at the same time, I don't want to harm anyone.

In my grief, the desire to live and the desire to die wages on. I want to see my Cristoff again, I want to see my people again. I had accepted that our goodbyes would be final…but now as the end gets closer and closer it's more possible that I could be coming home. The thought is intoxicating but poisonous. It clouds my mind, it begs and hopes so dangerously.

My desire to live has always been strong. Coupled with the desire to make sure Alaric gets home, I have made it this far. But there's also the part of me that feels like Canta. How much is there left to live for? Can I live with the guilt when I leave here? Whatever, I do the Capitol wins.

I push it down inside of me. Wiping at my face, I focus on Alaric and struggle to my feet. My hazy eyes meet his red-rimmed ones as he straightens up from what he's doing. My hand clutches at my side as I go into his arms.

I bury my face into his chest, reminded again of the home I've left behind. I'd given up on returning even though I hoped that I could get Alaric home. But I know now that we'll fight harder and longer to get home now than ever before. "We can make it," I whisper.

"We're going home," he looks down in my face. "We'll be back in our District in just a few days. We're going to fight," he looks back at what he was doing while I was eaten up with grief. He's lined up Canta, Mikal, and Harvest. Their arms crossed on their chests, their lids closed in a last sign of respect.

"We've never stopped, we'll never stop." I look at Canta one more time before we turn away. I clutch my side as we walk away, only making it a hundred yards before we set our packs down.

It seems so strange that she's gone. She's dead. Her body is all that's left behind—the kind soul that once resided there has been crushed and vanquished. The bright light of her being snuffed out like a candle by their fingers.

Alaric helps me remove my shirt as we sit there, peeling it away from the blood. The gaping wounds from the teeth are bleeding profusely, the skin practically shredded on my side. Gingerly, he peels the shreds of skin and replaces them. The pain radiates out, reminding me of the lashes on my back faintly as Alaric applies some herbs from our bag. I recognize it as Calendula, a herb from the daisy family that's used on wounds. The yellow and orange flower is ground together with aloe vera leaves and water to be applied the open wounds. Carefully, we take what little bandage we have left to wrap around my side. The binding is tight, but the pressure will keep me from bleeding out.

As we move through the woods, our hearts are heavy. There's only eight of us left. Only ourselves and three other teams. The tension is almost palpable in the air.

…

We gather more water and eat. Hours pass, until finally we approach a steep overhang. We peer over carefully, surprised to see the group from Districts 1, 2, and 4. I can see the bright flash of Victoria's crimson hair, and part of me wants to call for her. But I know, it won't be long until we meet up with them.

I'm again broken out of my thoughts by the voice that fills every corner of the arena. "The very Hunger Games has been _highly _successful. I've been anticipating this moment for the entire games. Four teams left," I watch as Victoria's eyes flick up then focus on me. Even from here, I can see her hand tightens on her weapons—a hatchet and a spear. "It's time to announce a special turn of events. Saved for this moment to triple the excitement. _Only one person can survive the games."_

I feel the hatred, the anger surging through my body—but it's nothing to what I witness below. I can spare no though—my eyes are riveted to the scene below.

Jasmine's head jerks up and she's drawing her knife as she starts to turn as the announcer finishes, "May the odds be ever in your favour!"

As one, we watch them turn on each other. Jasmine and Davis clash against each other—no longer partners now that the rules have changed. They are no longer loyal to each other. Patrick and Edana seem confused as to who to attack, but clearly not trusting each other either. But it's Victoria who makes my heart surge.

As one, Victoria and Dana attack the ones nearby them. They stand back to back, united even against their ultimate death, possibly at the hands of the other. Only one of them can live and yet they trust each other still—just as I'm trusting Alaric.

Alaric and I stand there and watch as Jasmine finally cuts down Davis. The sound of his cannon booms as she turns to attack the others—her District partner killed by her hand in the struggle for her life. Victoria and Dana stay back to back, twisting and turning to attack the others. Edana, Patrick, and Jasmine are torn between defending against the dual onslaught of Victoria and Dana, and protecting against their former allies.

Each twist and turn is lightening fast. For a moment, it seems that Patrick has the upper hand when he disarms Dana while separating him from Victoria and rushes forward to finish him. Victoria swings wildly at Edana, and slings out a knife with her spare hand toward Dana. Dana ducks below Patrick's blow that was meant to kill and his fingers grip around the dagger that Victoria tossed. Dana's finger spin it delicately and drive the wedge under Patrick's ribs, the soft spew of blood spattering him in the face.

Ultimately though, the figh is futile. Jasmine, Patrick, and Edana are cut down one by one as Victoria and Dana. They turned on their partners when Victoria and Dana still trusted and for that their complete faith in each other is rewarded. The others can't fight against them when they don't trust anyone but themselves.

When Victoria finishes off Jasmine, the cannon echoes so loud in the stillness as Alaric and I wait for what happens next. Dana turns toward Victoria, who's still facing away. She's pulling the spear out of Jasmine's neck as Dana comes up behind her. I want to scream to warn her, but she turns to him suddenly and drives the spear down into the dirt between them. He reaches out and hands her the canteen. "Are you hurt, Tori?"

"No more than before Dana, yourself?" She smiles at him before pouring the water down her throat.

"A cut on my back, nothing too bad." He turns his back fully to her and Victoria carefully checks it as she hands back the water. It's evident that they've decided the time to turn on each other isn't now.

Victoria turns toward us on the cliff, "Don't be thinking of using your arrows Emera."

"Not a chance against you," I shout back.

She brushes back the coils of her hair, "I feared this Emera. It was always going to be us wasn't it? What's better entertainment than this? The showdown between us, it's what they've all been clamoring for!"

"I had hoped it wouldn't," I pause delicately. "We'll come to you and finish this."

Victoria stares up at me over the distance, "I don't hate you, but it won't stop me from killing you."

"I know," we turn and begin our way down to the final meeting. I feel the dull ache progressing through my body. I haven't had time to think about it till now. Of course, Alaric and I will face this together—I don't have to ask. It's now that I know I won't be coming home. I've survived this long because I wanted to bring him home. I even had started to hope and want to come home because of how I loved Cristoff. But now I know that it's never been going to be me especially now when I want it.

We don't talk about it as we walk along the cliff to find a way down. I know that he'll never willingly let me die for him, so I have to fight as long as I can and take out the others while allowing myself to die. I just have to help him as far as I can. Just keep it from coming down to him and I. I don't want it to be us, because I don't want him to watch as I kill myself. I don't want him to watch me bleed out and try to stop me from perishing.

He's going home.


	13. Slaves Till the End

**Here we go, I hope you're ready. Saturday is...the end of this. Who will win?**

**Because I can't decide there's two quotes for you both from Vampire Diaries!**

**_Damon (to Mason): Don't look so surprised. You knew this was inevitable. _**

**_Esther: Do you know why I'm here?_**

**_Klaus: You're here to kill me_**

**_Esther: Niklaus,you're my son and I'm here to forgive you_**

The sun shines on, blissfully unaware that people are fighting and dying beneath its rays. At least in one place in the world, there's about to be a showdown. Three people are about to die violently at the hands of their friends. Yet, in the scheme of things…we are only four people…

The flowers bloom, the daisies sway in the breeze and I even stop for a moment to pick a dandelion. I'm reminded of a time when I was younger when my mother took Tristan and I to the meadow. We stood there in the April breezes blowing the dandelions seeds and watching them scatter with the wind. I remember what she told us—that every word and every action was like one of those seeds. Someone could catch it, an idea—a meaning could grab seed and flourish—be careful with the message you send, beware the power of it.

I've never understood better than I have right now.

There isn't anything left for me to do except to die bravely and take as many of the others with me as I can so Alaric can live. There are no more battles after this, just a coffin. I will die a slave. I can do that though, I can die and prove to them that I care more about his safety than mine. I will declare my independence today.

The wind whips up and through my hair as we walk. I kick a stone and watch it trickle down the path in front of us. Everything is perfectly quiet, only the birds are singing. We decide to take a rest even though it's not been that long since we ate. We might as well eat all we have left, we won't need it much longer.

We sit down tearing the meat off the bone, chewing thoughtfully and slowly as the birds alight on the branches to listen. My heart stills at the sight of them, and I realize it is _our_ bird. "Look who's come to join us, Alaric," my voice is soft as one of them tilts it's head at me and flutters it's wings.

Back when we were fighting, the Capitol used these birds against us called Jabberjays—I guess now that it's what they call a muttation. But the birds would listen and repeat our words, tell the Capitol everything about what we were doing. We lost scores of soldiers that way, precious numbers…precious souls…until we realized that the birds were listening.

We turned their weapon against them, we spread lies and won battles with the aid of the Jabberjays until the Capitol decided they were of no more use to them. They tried to let them die, just like they would do later to Thirteen.. But the Jabberjays flourished. They breed with Mockingbirds and before the next year ended—just as we were surrendering, we caught sight of them. Tiny little blackbirds, just old enough to fly then. A solid white patch on their wings, and though they could not repeat our words they repeat our tunes.

I would watch them back home, I would tell my people to look at them. Cast out by the Capitol and yet they thrive and evolve. They become new, they become Mockingjays. Right now, all we have to do is survive.

Alaric stands up and whistles the tune to Alaric's song, and they each tilt their heads in interest. One comes closer to him and tilts his head as if he's mesmerized by the tune. I can tell by his actions that he will never forget our tune and through that we will live on.

By the time we pack up, the birds are flying on ahead of us alighting on branches and singing down to us, before moving along again with us. They're content to follow us with their haunting refrain of better days.

Will a world like that ever exist again? Has it really ever existed before?

As we're walking, we don't keep our weapons up. They're lax in our hands. We know the final battle will be honest and fair—because that's who Victoria and Dana are. Somehow, while we're walking Alaric's hand finds mine.

He squeezes my fingers tightly and the numb feeling in my heart fades away into pain. I know he's trying to comfort me, but soon he will be the one to be comforted. He will be the one left behind. I look up at him as we walk, and I try to etch his face into my mind again. _I am doing this for you,_ I wish I could tell him. He'd try to stop me though, and there's no argument that will keep me from killing myself.

I wish that I had another moment to look into Cristoff's eyes. I wish I had another moment to tell him goodbye. I wish that I could make love to him again, and lay there in his arms while dreaming of the future we were never meant to have. I hope that he will be fine without me, even though I know deep in my heart he won't. He will never be the same without me, as I would never be the same without him.

He will go on living for his family. He will protect them and keep them safe. Maybe even, he will see the future we longed for given to some distant family member. We have survived a war and a conquering, now he gets to watch me die. He gets to see me give up and let Alaric come home, but I know he'll understand because he's always understood me. The first to wake, the last to sleep. First in battle, last to retreat or back down. He said he loved that about me. I can't help but wonder does he love it now?

My eyes look up and I'm sure that a camera is watching me somewhere. I keep my eyes trained on one spot as we move, wishing him to see that in my eyes I've only ever and will only ever love him. I hope he can forgive me.

…

The hill slopes down, and we walk for hours before we get there. The sun is high in the sky—about three when we round the corner. There they are across the clearing. The flash of Victoria's red hair is like the pelt of a fox as she lies out on the grass. Even from here, I can feel her eye watching me, but she doesn't rise or move.

"Take a rest Emera, I don't want anyone saying that I won because you were tired from walking," her voice hangs in the air as I throw down our pack.

"So then, you talk so freely of your winning as if Dana were already dead," my steps bring us closer before I sit down. There's maybe ten yards separating us now.

She sits up and pushes back long strands of her hair, "Unlike you Emera, we face our problems. Dana told me long ago that if the choice ever came between me or him, his choice was me. I have a daughter at home, I can't refuse that."

His voice is like velvet when he speaks, so perfectly calm, "Nothing's changed. My family can survive without me, but Mel needs her mother. When we kill both of you—"

Her voice is stretched and thin, "Then I'll end him. He's given me his life as a gift, and I will take it from him and go _home._" She pauses, her voice softer now. "Tell me Emera, have you two discussed what's to happen if we fail?"

Our silence is her answer.

I open up the water bottle and take a long draught of water to cool my throat as I check over my weapons. My mind drifts back to Victoria and I when we were younger. We were—are the best of friends. I was there when she was beaten and raped just after her thirteenth birthday. I was there when she decided to endure any shame to have that child even if no one would blame her otherwise. She held my hand as she pushed out little Melanthe—a perfect baby girl. I was there to see her struggle, to live with the shame and to prove to them all that she did not care. I feared for her when she tucked Melanthe away in safety when the Rebellion began. I was there when they were finally able to rescue her after fourty-eight plus hours hunkered down in a trench in the middle of a field to protect her wounded and dying Major. I was the one that had to tell her she'd never get her sight back.

Dana was a friend, someone who was kind of there but never in the foreground. He was brave and heroic, but for me he wasn't personal. I pull myself to my feet, my hand closing around the rapier. "Let's not stretch out this pain," I say as I stretch my arm muscles.

I can see Alaric getting up behind me, picking up his sword, "Let's finish this." His voice is so despairingly sad.

Victoria stands up, her blind eye not registering anything as she fingers the rapier in her hand. Dana steps to the side, going to go for Alaric. So it is meant to be me against Victoria then. Her voice is soft, much kinder than I've heard it since we've come here. "I'm sorry, my sister. Forgive me the sin I'm about to commit."

We clash forward, our blades making a metallic ringing sound. She's swift and skilled, just like I am. We move so fast that it's more instinct that keeps her blows from landing than actual sight. People think that because Victoria is blind in one eye that she can't sense things at well—this shows them they are wrong.

Her other senses are magnified, furious, and magnificent. Each block, each attack, each parry, and—anything she does is calculated and measured. She has a sense for how opponents think, and it's more guts than anything that drives her attack.

We spin and circle. We slash and slit. I feel the bandage on my side seeping through with blood. I want to give in, I want to kneel before her and let her run me through, but Alaric still lives. Alaric is going home. I can't…But Victoria. My heart wavers, and I try so desperately to stop thinking but it's no use. Why should I decide Alaric over Victoria? What gives me the right?

She has a child. He has a lover. She has a husband. They have my loyalty. They're both my friends. How have I chosen? What makes me think it's okay or right to choose Alaric?

I've fallen into their trap. I've…fallen into their plan. They wanted us to hate each other—to fight against each other and I have fallen prey to it. I am nothing more than a pawn, destructible and invaluable.

I am the Capitol's slave.

I am reminded of it over and over again. Why do I keep fighting? Why don't I fall to my knees and tell them I'm done with this. I'm done with all of it.

It's not pride that keeps me standing; it's not pride that keeps me fighting. I cannot choose between them, but…I can make the decision easier for them both. If Alaric wins, I'll keep fighting. If he loses, I'll lay down my weapon and die. That is the best I can do.

It's as though someone has heard me, as though someone is making my decision simple. I hear the scream tear through the air as the cannon sounds, and I know that it's over. I know he's dead.

I feel the tears sting my eyes, as another voice cries out in agony. "Dana!"

It's the sound of heartache. The same sound that I heard in her voice when she told me she was carrying a child.

My rapier runs through her middle, and I feel the blood pooling over my hands as her anguished eye comes back to me. The rapier falls from her shaking hands as they worm their way up my arm, "Emera." The bloody froth is spilling from her lips. "I always cared. I always…cared. I just…Mel. Damon…Mel."

"I know, I know Victoria. You don't have to tell me. I know." My hands grip hers and then her waist as she becomes unsteady.

"Good," she breathes out as her cannon booms.

I have no time to mourn, Alaric and I are the only one's left.


	14. Kingdom Come

**Here you go, the thrilling conclusion of**…

**_Aaron "Hotch" Hotchner: [Final monologue] Sometimes there are no words, no clever quotes to neatly sum up what's happened that day. Sometimes you do everything right, everything exactly right, and still you feel like you failed. Did it need to end that way? Could something have been done to prevent the tragedy in the first place?_**

**_ Like I said, sometimes there are no words, no clever quotes to neatly sum up what's happened that day._**

**_Sometimes, the day just..._**  
><strong><em>*gunshot*<em>**

**_ ...ends._**

**_Criminal Minds, Season 4, Episode 26 (A two part Episode, the first called "To Hell..." But the second episode has this quote taken fro it) "...And Back"_**

I pull my blade from Victoria as I let her lifeless body fall to the ground. My hand shakes as I hold the thin blade. _Be strong, Emera. You can do this._

It's the moment I've dreaded. The last tribute but two have fallen—the two of us from District 12. I turn and Alaric is standing there five feet from me, and I can feel myself shaking slightly. "You know what they want from us," he says lightly and I can't help but notice his smile as he looks at me.

I toss the blade to the ground, and my fingers curl around the knife blade in my waist band. I feel the comfort of it in my fingers, knowing that I need to do this before I change my mind. I need to do this before—

"Emera," Alaric's voice is soft. I can feel him stepping closer to me. I want to face him…look at his face but if I do, I won't be able to go on. I won't be able to finish this. I knew that I'd have to do this soon, but now at the end I want to live. But the only person I'm fighting is myself. I can't fight for my life anymore when my life is the only thing that will save his.

My eyes come up to his, and he sees it in my eyes. He sees everything I have planned. His eyes go down to the knife gripped in my hand and the realization that I've been planning to do this for awhile dawns on his face.

I want to go home, back to Cristoff…but not at this price. How much I wish that I could wake up right now and this all just be a bad dream. But we're still standing there, not looking at each other anymore.

What do you say to the person you're going to kill yourself for? What do you say to convince them there's no other way, even if there isn't? We both know it can only be one of us, both wish it had to be neither of us.

The pain of killing Victoria gives me strength, "Alaric," I begin, because there are things he must know—things he must do since he's the one going home. "Make sure Cristoff is okay for me?" I feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes. "Make sure that Eric, Christian, Aelman, and Alexia are safe. I would have liked…to be a part of the family." I'll never get to have a toasting with Cristoff, never pledge my love to him and have those I love around us. We were never meant to be happy. We were born in District 12—the only thing we are assured of is coal and misery.

"Marriage doesn't change that Emera, you're their family. Mine too," I can see the tears starting to roll down Alaric's face.

"Don't make this harder, Alaric. Save your tears until I'm gone," but I can't stop myself from letting the tears glide down my face. I don't want it to be like this, I don't want to have to watch him watch me kill myself. "I think you should go, Alaric."

"No," he steps towards me and my hand tightens on the knife. "You don't believe in this. You don't believe that this is right."

The tears fall quicker down my face as I try to keep my emotions in check, "Nothing is fair about this. Nothing is right about this. Nothing is right about a world like this, or Games like these Alaric." I pause, "You have to remember why we're here. Why this is happening. You have to remember what we fought for, you have to remember all of it or it's all been for nothing. Promise me?"

"I can't forget any of this, ever."

"Good," I swallow hard and wipe at my face. "Are you ready to go home?"

"No matter what happens, I'll never go home."

"Promise me, you'll try…for her? For me?" I beg him.

"I miss her," he says gently.

I nod my head slowly, "I know." I wish he'd just kill me—get this over with so I didn't have to do it myself, but he's not that kind of man.

Time slows as the sun creeps further down in the sky, but my eyes are focused on his. I want him to understand that I'm not giving up that I'm sacrificing myself for him. It's more than duty, it's my love that makes me do this for him. Every time I told him I would die for him, I meant it. Now is the time to do it, the time to carry it out.

There's a soft rustle and both of us look up as parachute floats down. I look up to see it land right in front of us. I reach forward and touch a light blue box tied with a red ribbon. I pull the ribbon and lift the lid to find an old fashioned revolver or a replica of one. I open the barrel and spin it. There's one bullet.

The message is loud and clear—finish it.

It's time to get it over with.

The knife blade slips through my fingers as I slam the barrel shut and I stand up to walk a few feet away, starting to tremble. I wished he'd just done it so I didn't have to do it myself. I'd rather die by someone else's hand than my own, but he was going to go home.

I go to cock the gun, when I feel his hand on mine. "You can't stop me. You're going home." I can see the anguish in his eyes. "Back up so I can do this." He let's go of me, and I feel myself begin to shake again, but he's still right there.

His hand is out to me, as he bites his lip. "Let me have it."

I laugh, "Right, so you can kill yourself? You're going home Alaric."

He shuts his eyes again before he looks at me, "I promise I won't. But I…I don't want you to have to do this yourself."

I square my shoulders resolutely, "It's better if I do."

He motions to me with his fingers again, "Give it to me. What if you miss? I'll have to finish you anyways."

That's true and I'd rather it be quick. I look into his eyes, "Promise me, you'll kill me." I state still withholding the gun.

He bites his lip again, "I promise." I look into his eyes long and hard, and I see that he's telling the truth.

He takes the gun from my hand and he wraps his arms around me one last time and I cling to him knowing that this will be the last thing I feel before I die. "Goodbye," he says it like I'll see him tomorrow. But I cling to him, because I don't want to let his warmth go. I don't want to close my eyes from him forever. I don't want him to be left behind to clean up my mess, but I let him go. He can do this.

"Goodnight," I whisper back. I know that my eyes will not open again soon. He backs a few feet away and stares at me, and he's shaking. And I'm happy that he's doing this for me that I don't have to do it myself, but at the same time…I wish he didn't have to suffer either.

He cocks the pistol and points it straight out at me. "Thank you," I say—meaning it. Thank you for ending me, thank you for letting it be quick. Thank you for not making me go home without you. Thank you for being strong.

"I'm sorry," he says. I see the tears running down his face. This is it. This is the end. No more fighting. No more pain. Nothing else is after this. I brace myself for impact knowing that it won't really help. But I'm not ready for it when it happens.

"I'm sorry, I lied." Quicker than I can move, he turns the gun against his chest and fires.

I feel the warm splatter hit my face as his chest explodes open. The sound of the cannon echoes around the arena.

**…the games. This isn't over yet. Come back next Wednesday to find out the other HALF of the story. XD**

_**Tall trees bend and lean pointing where to go  
>Where you will still be all alone<br>Don't you fret, my dear  
>It'll all be over soon<strong>_

_**-Kingdom Come by the Civil Wars**_


	15. Rebel's Heart

**Was having issues updating earlier so I couldn't get it up till now. It's a little shorter than I planned and it's actually not what I planned at all. But Emera demanded to have her way and I let her. After all, it is her story.**

**Next update on this and Phoenix (and ToB) is on Saturday! XD**

**Thanks for bearing with me loves!**

_**"I'm for truth, no matter who tells it. I'm for justice, no matter who it is for or against. I'm a human being, first and foremost, and as such I'm for whoever and whatever benefits humanity as a whole." **_  
><em><strong>Malcolm X<strong>_

My hands are outstretched when the small flecks hit my face. I don't even have time to close my eyes as he pulls the trigger. The crimson drops fly at me like paint…like rain…Only, where it lands on my face it doesn't move—it congeals.

It's like tiny pinpoints of heat on me, the last remnants of the warmth of Alaric's body flying out on to me as I rush toward him. He crumples and folds to the ground and my lifeless fingers fall to my sides as I stand there looking down at the only reason I fought in the Game. I fought to bring him home. I fought against my beliefs and my very will to get him home—and he killed himself for me.

I hear words and voices, but they're all hollow and distant in my ears like the buzzing of angry bees. I feel the sting of tears as they burn furrows down the pathways of my cheeks and force themselves into mingling with Alaric's blood. My knees hit the ground and my hands are still useless by my side as I look at him.

Something about it stirs me. I push myself forward and my hand touches his chest—the place where his heart once resided. My fingers press to his shirt and the blood pours from the gaping wound staining the front of his shirt crimson. My touch brought the blood to sight. But I can't accept it, I can't wrap my mind around the fact that Alaric is dead. I touch my head to that spot and I can feel the warm rush of blood on my face. But as soon as it touches me, it cools and spreads.

I lift my face from his chest, and I can feel the wind chilling the wetness of my face. I can taste the iron of his blood on my lips. Trembling, I bring my hands up and see them coated in the dark red fluid. It's his blood. His blood. My hands are covered in his blood. I look down as my still shaking hands remain in front of me. My arms are covered, my chest…I can feel it on my face, in my mouth, and on my hair. But it's still my hands that draw my eyes.

People say it, and they mean it. "You have their blood on your hands." They say it because they're angry, because they're right…They say it because they hurt. But never have I experienced the full truth of it until now. I'm kneeling in his blood. I'm covered in it. My hands are stained with Alaric Ander's blood and no matter what happens—they will never come clean. The stains will fade, others may forget…but for me this is the moment that will extend into eternity. Why try to wash it away? It won't matter. I'll know that I'm the one who killed him.

He died for _me._

I hear the low guttural cry coming from somewhere. I register the sound, and I think that some beast is charging at me prepared to wound in it's pain. But then, I realize…it's me. Those sounds are mine. The anguish rips from me harder than I thought it could and my hands cover my face. I feel the sticky wetness lacing my face with icy coldness as the wind becomes more chill. I cannot do this. I can't do this. I can't live. I can't…go on like this.

I can't sit here and let them win. I can't let them have the last word.

It clicks into place as I wipe at my eyes, but the crimson tones get in the way of my sight. I move my fingers over his lids, and push his eyes closed—leaving a crimson line down his face. My lips press to his forehead, as the sobs come quieter now.

"Go on in peace brother," I rise shakily to my legs as my fingers clutch. I raise my three middle fingers of my left hand to my lips and cast them out for everyone watching to see. What a spectacle I must be. What a complete and utter mess of blood, tears, and brokenness.

But I know how to fix it.

I see the hovercraft coming toward me, and I know they're coming for me. If I don't go with them willingly they'll drag me out of this arena. But I have no qualms about going now, just not as they planned.

My right hand clutches the knife I grabbed while rising and as I stand there I think about what I'm doing. The hell with it all. You play with matches, you get burned—and now it's my time to strike and light the fire that will sweep Panem.

There will be no winners of this Game.

I grit my teeth and drive the knife hard through the muscles of my stomach. I feel the shredding and ripping as I twist it before pulling it out. It's all I can do to focus, but it's my rage that drives me on. I plunge the knife and twist again, this time in my chest. I feel the warmth expelling from my body and falling out over me, and the cold is already starting in my extremities—it makes it hard to hold on to the knife. But I drive it again into my flesh as someone rushes at me, I slash at them, and feel the arterial spray hit me in the face as I drive the blade a final time into my thigh.

I can't straighten up. The coughs start in as I rip the blade out as hands try to stop me. The blood pools up from my mouth and spills on the floor like puddles after rain. Red. Everywhere is red.

My body crumples forward and I feel hands grabbing at me, voices pouring into my ears but like waves they wash over me and all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears as they water takes it away. Already, the pain that was so hard to fight through—so hard to keep stabbing myself through has faded away. My whole body feels chill as I take in another gasp of air. It's more difficult now to breath, and the scent of it is tinged with mouthfuls of dirt. I breathe in the essence of life, and feel the particles of dirty ricocheting around in my mouth and throat.

I can hear the dull rhythm of my heart fading out and it comes—the time when my body is too weak and frail to draw another breath. I lay there suffocating, eyes wide open thinking _so this is what it feels like to die._

I hear a sound like a cannon and my mind registers one last thing before my eyes fall so heavily that I can't open them again. _This is it._

…

Dry. It's the first word I can catch in my tumbling thoughts. My mouth is dry. I finally put together the sentence in my mind. I go to move my hands, only to find that I can't. I open my eyes and the light is excruciating.

Memories flood back of the Arena. Of hands touching me. I remember disjointed pain and harrowing dreams. I remember gasping for air, the sound of a shrill flat beep and then a shocking, searing pain that radiated through my chest.

Dully, I realize that I'm alive. My last attempt has failed.

I pull at my arm restraints, but they're too thick and heavy. I'm trapped again. I begin thrashing and I can feel the stitches pulling and the pain starting to take over. I hear sharp beeping sounds, alarms going off. I start slamming my head over and over into the cold metal table. Each thud is disorienting, but keep going—I keep fighting to try to damage myself where they can't fix me. They get to control how I live and die, but not this time—not if I can help it.

But suddenly, my arms are heavy again and I fade back into nothingness.

…

Days have gone by when I next open my eyes. My stomach feels shriveled and my body weak. I try to turn my head, but nothing happens. It's then I realize my head has been bound to the table along with the rest of my body. They've made it where I can't fight.

Over the next few days, I realize I don't even have the choice of choosing whether I eat or not. They have a feeding tube in me, forcing me to gain sustenance though I don't want it.

My mind starts to feel sharper as I get fewer drugs. Instead of screaming obscenities like I have been doing for the past hours, I decide to fall silent. Over days, my voice falls into disuse. My mind drifts into ideas of what's to come. I'm going to be forced to live, forced to live as some puppet of their will until I can clip my strings. I need to wait. I need to obey. I need to lay low now and strike at the perfect moment.

I won't make it through this. I know that, but I'm willing to die for it. I feel the hot sting of tears in my eyes again. I can't cry, not now that I've decided I'm going to live. I'm going to live until the moment of my death is perfect. I'm going to obey them from now on, bow my head and do what's asked of me until I can destroy them or at least give my people the tools to.

This is what it's come to. Not the choice of survival for myself, but the choice of giving others a chance to survive. And somehow, I realize that this is the only decision that I could have ever made. It is the only reason that makes sense anymore. I know now that whatever we do I'll never be safe from them, I'll never—

I know I won't survive another Rebellion, but maybe—just maybe I can survive long enough to start one.


	16. Vacancy in my Heart

**Edit: I realize my fake out a few chapters back has everyone thinking that his is ending with every chapter (though if you noticed I never said that the story was ending-just implied the end was near-the end of the game. . And you will know with certainty when you see the final chapter go up. There won't be any doubt at all. Emera has a few more things to do, I promise.**

**_Extreme Tissue warning. Proceed with caution._**

**I wrote this whole chapter while listening to "My Father's Father" by The Civil Wars. I challenge you to read this chapter while listening to that song. It's on youtube.**

**Copying the same note here as from The Phoenix: Burning Day as I don't have the heart to retype it differently-and really there's no point.**

**Rest in Peace**

** Little Bit**

_**I hear something hanging on the wind**_  
><em><strong>I see black smoke up around the bend<strong>_  
><em><strong>I got my ticket and<strong>_  
><em><strong>I'm going to go home<strong>_

_**The leaves have changed a time or two**_  
><em><strong>Since the last time the train came through<strong>_  
><em><strong>I got my ticket and I'm going to go home<strong>_

_**My father's father's blood is on the track**_  
><em><strong>A sweet refrain drifts in from the past<strong>_  
><em><strong>I got my ticket and I'm going to go home<strong>_

_**The winding roads they led me here **_  
><em><strong>burn like coal and dry like tears<strong>_  
><em><strong>So here's my hope<strong>_  
><em><strong>My tired soul<strong>_  
><em><strong>So here's my ticket<strong>_  
><em><strong>I want to go home<strong>_  
><em><strong>Home<strong>_  
><em><strong>Home <strong>_

_**My Father's Father sung by The Civil Wars**_

A new day rises, and things are better. Tomorrow is always kinder than the days before. The sun shines brighter, the rain is gone. Everything is okay now. The darkness has passed…tired clichés all of them. All of them lies. There are no brighter days, there are no more happy moments—at least not that I will see. The storm is just beginning and I will not see it end.

The scenery rolls by beyond my windows. Familiar places that reside somewhere in the foggy depths of my memories and my nightmares. I remember marching over this terrain, fighting over this land, and who can forget—bleeding and dying for it. It's after all what everyone fights for. He who controls the land controls the sustenance and the people.

My mind flits from thought to though, unable to stay perched on any one idea too long. Everything is dull and also remarkable sharp. It's like pressing your finger to the tip of a blade—entranced by the blood to the point of not caring for the pain. I've hurt so much already—that this isn't as painful as it should be.

I feel hollow and empty as the train rolls on home. There are no more tears to be cried. I've cried them all and I've thought out everything. Things aren't the worst—yet. But I know now, after what I've done that the worst is yet to come. I'm accepting it. Accepting that I can't stop it from coming—at least not for me…but there are others who still have a chance.

Cynanide gives me a cold drink, but I ignore him even though he is…kind. I have no urge to break my silence for him, no urge to utter a word until I'm a far away from the Capitol as I can. Instead, I content myself with staring out windows and watching my life speed by. How many more breaths will I have? How much time do I need?

Plans crop up in my mind half-formulated. Since I was…rescued, I chose the word with derision; I've been sedated heavily and met with only veiled threats. I tried to keep my eyes down and not speak, act as if I was too…whatever to talk or feel what they did. For the most part, they had left me alone and it had given me hours and hours to plan what I was going to do next.

It's a terrible thing to be alone with so much hate.

I spent weeks there, it could have been years, my mind reminds me idly. But no, it was weeks. My leg is still sore and impossible to use very well. My chest and stomach bring about a constant pain that stays, then fades, and then resumes it's horror. My fingers glide over my shirt, and I can feel the upraised mark beneath the thin material. I remember how close I was to dying, how I'd almost escaped them. But I was too strong of a fighter—I couldn't even make my own body stop fighting for me. I had been instrumental in my own failure.

…

Cyanide tries to convince me to go to my compartment and sleep, but I ignore him. His voice fades away from my ears until it's like the soft whispering of leaves in a breeze and nothing more. I'm dimly aware that he's there, but his presence neither bothers or comforts me. He just exists somewhere beyond me.

I stare out the window as darkness falls over the land. My eyes can no longer see anything, but lurching shadows that grow and fade. I keep staring though until my eyes don't see anything anymore—at least not anything that's here, not really here…

"_He'll make you happy," Alaric draws with a stick in the dirt._

"_I don't know what that feels like anymore," I continue sharpening the blade in my hands._

"_I doubt most of us do anymore, at least not completely." His eyes go past to Cristoff—his chest uncovered except for the blood soaked bandage. "Be happy while you can Emera, it could be taken away any minute—especially if it's willing to die for you." He smiles at me softly._

_I push myself off the ground and make my way over to Cristoff. I brush back his dark hair. For a minute, his breathing changes and then resumes its restful rhythm. He nearly died for me today…And I nearly died to save him. Alaric was right, he's made his intentions clear. Now it's my turn to step up._

_I touch my lips to Cristoff's for the first time. His hand grips the back of my head as he wakes and pulls himself up closer to me. For a moment, I'm worried that he might be hurting himself more—but as his lips are insistent on mine that quickly fades away. The heat of the fire is nothing compared to the heat that emanates within us._

…

_I watch my father sit down heavily, his leg bandaged and bloody—but he's alive. "Daddy," my voice breaks for a moment as I brush at the tears in my eyes. I have to be strong to tell him. He should hear it from me._

"_I know," he says heavily. He turns toward me with his arms opened wide. I see the truth in his eyes as I rush to him. "She's gone…" His voice breaks sharply. "She's gone…She's dead." He says it over and over, unable to process them completely as I hold on to him._

"_How did you know?" I'm struggling to hold on and not lose it._

"_I felt it," he puts his hand on the back of my head. "I just knew…"_

_I pull myself away from him and wipe at my eyes. "She wouldn't…"_

"_I know," he says simply. "She wouldn't want us to act like this."_

I sigh pulling myself back to the present for a moment. The sun rises and spreads its pink fingers across the sky. I can't help but think how it reminds me of my stained hands when I touched Alaric.

_My fingers press to his shirt and the blood pours from the gaping wound staining the front of his shirt crimson. My touch brought the blood to sight. But I can't accept it, I can't wrap my mind around the fact that Alaric is dead. I touch my head to that spot and I can feel the warm rush of blood on my face. But as soon as it touches me, it cools and spreads._

_I lift my face from his chest, and I can feel the wind chilling the wetness of my face. I can taste the iron of his blood on my lips. Trembling, I bring my hands up and see them coated in the dark red fluid. It's his blood. His blood. My hands are covered in his blood. I look down as my still shaking hands remain in front of me. My arms are covered, my chest…I can feel it on my face, in my mouth, and on my hair. But it's still my hands that draw my eyes._

And just like every day since, I find myself coming back out of it looking down at my hands again. I flip them over and then back palms up. I repeat the motion looking at each minute piece of skin—no blood. I don't understand how, but somehow it's gone this time.

Sometimes, I open my eyes and I see the blood more vivid than ever. Sometimes, I scrub my hands until my flesh is raw. But finally, I realize that only I can see it. Now I just stare at it each day—wondering which day this is. Is it a day my hands are stained or isn't it?

…

Within another hour, I'm standing to get off the train. I watch as Cyanide radiates to the window. I dimly am aware of his had going to his mouth—of words that are meat for me, but I don't listen. I'm heading toward the doors when his fingers jerk my arm.

"Don't go out there Emera, you…shouldn't see it," his voice is kind and pleading.

I want to tell him that it doesn't matter. What ever is going on out there—it's my fault surely. I want to tell him that I'll have to face it sooner or later—whatever it is. I know that whatever will meet my eyes is something that I don't want to see. But instead of speaking, of trying to make my voice work for him, I look into his eyes with the same tired look I've given him over and over for days. He let's go of my arm and covers his eyes.

The cool breeze hits me as the train doors open. For a moment, it's too bright to see anything. My eyes adjust and I'm greeted by a young man I a white peacekeeper uniform. He can't be but a year or two older than me. "I'm Head Peacekeeper Ambrose, you'll be seeing a lot of me Emera."

I look at him with cold eyes, but I don't waste a word on him. He grabs my arm and drags me forward and around the corner. I don't fight him. And even when I see it, I don't scream. Everyone is standing there watching and waiting, probably by his order, to see my reaction. It's the hardest thing I've done to keep the mask in place. No amount of preparation would have made this easy.

"They missed you very much," he jeers. "They were waiting for you to come home. So the day you got out of the arena…I told them they could hang around here until you got back." He turns to survey his handiwork.

There in the trees right on the edge of town hang my grandmother and father. Their faces gone, the carrion perched on their head—pecking at the flesh of their face. The sun has festered and ruined their bodies. Pieces are falling off, and it's enough to make me sick without knowing it's them. But there's something about the way they hang even in this state that makes me know it's them…Perhaps, it's because I have been feeling that vacant feeling in my heart since I woke up—I just didn't know who.

Ambrose leans in and I can smell the reek of Capitol on him, even though he couldn't have been there for ages. I know he's studying my impassive face, and he's disappointed that I haven't reacted violently. "There's your presents for putting on such a good show," he whispers into my ear. "Are you happy with your prize?"

I turn toward him and it's barely more than a whisper after so long of not talking. "I will kill you," he strains to hear it. My voice is flat and without emotion—it carries only certainty and for a moment he hesitates.

Stepping away, he throws a knife in the ground. "Cut them down Emera, unless you want them to stay there forever."

I don't know what he expects me to do—fall apart? Cry? Scream? Give him some excuse to tell his armed men to mow down the people gathered?

I walk forward, my leg slightly hindering me as I crouch and pick up the blade. It takes me a moment to straighten back up, but I square my shoulders and head to the trees to cut them down—forcing myself to remain impassive.


	17. Can't Save My Soul

** Also, I should stop listening to Civil Wars while writing. Next update Saturday!**

**And thank you so much whoever nominated me for The Pearl Awards! I've been nominated for Absolute Best OMG Moment for "Nine Words".**

_**I'm a dead man walking here**_  
><em><strong>But that's the least of all my fears<strong>_  
><em><strong>Ooh, underneath the water<strong>_

_**It's not Alabama clay**_  
><em><strong>That gives my trembling hands away<strong>_  
><em><strong>Please forgive me father<strong>_

_**Ain't going back to Barton Hollow**_  
><em><strong>Devil gonna follow me e'er I go<strong>_  
><em><strong>Won't do me no good washing in the river<strong>_  
><em><strong>Can't no preacher man save my soul<strong>_

_**Did that full moon force my hand?**_  
><em><strong>Or that un marked hundred grand?<strong>_  
><em><strong>Ooh, underneath the water<strong>_  
><em><strong>Please forgive me father<strong>_

_**Miles and miles in my bare feet**_  
><em><strong>Still can't lay me down to sleep<strong>_  
><em><strong>If I die before I wake<strong>_  
><em><strong>I know the Lord my soul won't take<strong>_

_**I'm a dead man walking**_  
><em><strong>I'm a dead man walking<strong>_

_**Keep walking and running and running for miles**_  
><em><strong>Keep walking and running and running for miles<strong>_  
><em><strong>Keep walking and running and running for miles<strong>_

_**Ain't going back to Barton Hollow**_  
><em><strong>Devil gonna follow me e'er I go<strong>_  
><em><strong>Won't do me no good washing in the river<strong>_  
><em><strong>Can't no preacher man save my soul<strong>_

**_The Civil War's Barton Hallow_**

I feel the hard, compact earth beneath my feet. Tiny puffs of coal shift up and into the air, and I can smell the scent of it in my nostrils—the scent of home. My eyes rest on their scavenged bodies, hanging there in disgrace and somehow I hold in the cry that is shredding my heart as I walk with unfaltering steps.

I put the blade between my teeth and feel it bite into the corners of my mouth as I taste the acidic blood. My body is unused to the exertion as I shimmy my way up the tree. My leg is like the lead in my heart—both just weighing me down. But I struggle on because all eyes are watching me, waiting for what I will do and I will show them that no matter what they do to me I won't give up. They have killed my family, the last remnants in the world with my blood.

I am alone. Who knows what they've done to the rest I love?

My foot slips for a moment on the trunk as Alaric comes to my mind. Somewhere, out there…he could be waiting to be murdered in front of me. But I push myself up even though my body wants to resist and shut down. I move to the branch and my fingers touch the twisted rope as I pull the blade from my mouth.

The blade is so sharp that it cuts quickly and cleanly through the rope. Gravity pulls my father's body down with a jolt and just like that I watch as he slips through my fingers, crashing to the ground. His head dislodges and rolls a few feet away. If he still had eyes, if they'd not been taken, they'd be looking at me.

The sound of a commotion reaches my ears as my hand swiftly cuts the rope that holds my grandmother aloft. This time it's not her body slowly falling to the ground that captivates my eyes, it's Cristoff pushing through the crowd to reach me.

It's like everything is in slow motion. I want to yell to him to stop fighting to get to me, I want to run to him…but most of all I _need_ to protect him. I watch as they force him down to his knees. The Head Peacekeeper pulls his gun from his belt and he walks slowly to Cristoff. Time is so painfully slow as he pulls the barrel around and it begins to raise, but my hand lifts of my own accord to reach for him, to knock away the hand that would kill him.

My legs slip from the branch and I'm falling. The akward motion of it fills my stomach and pulls me down while leaving a part of me far behind. But as I crash into the ground, everything catches up—my stomach, the pain, the fear, and the anguish. I hear a loud terrifying scream and I know he's dead though I didn't hear the gunshot.

My fingers dig into the earth, and I see a maggot roll from my grandmother's eye socket. I can almost touch her hand—

Without warning, my eyes are skyward and I'm looking up into Cristoff's face. _Am I dead?_ But my mind begins to function again. I was the one who screamed, and he's alive! He is _real!_

Everything is so disjointed as I stare up at him. Black fingers of pain threaten to pull me under and away from him, but I focus on his eyes and on his face trying to hold on to the visage I thought I'd never see again. My fingers come up and touch his face despite the pain in my arm that radiates to my shoulder. My voice is not even a whisper, only a breath, "You're alive."

He catches it though, and he nods almost imperceptibly as he'd dragged from my arms and I'm jerked to my feet. My body protests violently, and I stifle another scream as I straighten up.

My eyes water and the pain threatens to overtake me, to drag me into its familiar and welcoming arms. I push harder against it and look Ambrose in the eyes for a long moment, but my eyes are drawn past him. My whole body stiffens as I see my former solider Jackson in the familiar white peacekeeper's uniform.

I spit in his face, and I feel the sharp sting of across my face as he backhands me. I feel the blood pool in my mouth, the outline of his hand on my face and I spit out the blood as I look at him coldly. "Traitor," I spit it out with the file blood.

Ambrose wraps his arm around Jackson and leads him away as the Peacekeepers r leave us there. Without my consent my body turns to Cristoff's and I melt into him. My hands clinging around his neck, steadying me from all the uncertainty in the world because this is certain, the way I feel for him.

His lips press to mine, and I feel the embers of my heart fanned again into flames. I thought it was dead…put out that I wouldn't feel again when I saw my grandmother and father dead. But now, I wonder how I could even think that? Something blossoms in my chest as I cling to him. It doesn't matter that we're in pain, it doesn't matter anything really except that he's here.

He pulls away from me, and I hate that his lips leave mine, "Hello again…" His voice is just a whisper.

….

People gathered around me, welcomed me home. They saluted me, they whispered, and each eye stayed trained on me as if asking, "What do we do now?"

It doesn't matter that I'm battered or bruised. It doesn't matter that a year ago, I asked them to lay down their weapons—I am their Captain, and the fortunes of war have brought me home to lead them again. They don't want another year like this one. I run my hands through Alexia's hair as she clings to me, her fingers digging into my skin as if she's afraid to let me go again.

My people bring shovels to bury my family, their former leaders; but I stop them. "He didn't want to be buried," my voice is still gravelly from not talking for so long. "He didn't want to be buried in the ground, he spent enough of his life under it already and so did she."

I see understanding in their eyes as they retrieve wood, and even a few precious pieces of coal to put around the body. I'm passed a torch so that I can set them free. I kneel in the dirt, and bow my head in respect while I raise the three fingers of my left hand to them. I repeat to them the words we said over fallen miners for centuries, "The earth cannot hold you—may your memories warm the hearts of those you touched, and may your ashes blow free as you never were. May you find peace at last."

The words echo around me in haunting refrain as they are picked up and repeated by all who are there. I take a few steps back and throw the torch on them. What is left of my blood alights in flames. It consumes them as small swirls of smoke and cinders float up toward the sky—releasing their spirits from the ground. I watch as the cinders catch hold of the leaves in the tree above, each leaf eaten by flames from the inside out—so symbolic of the emotions I feel.

These games have chilled me, eaten away my core and consumed me with hatred. I hated the Capitol already, but that hate feels so pale and childish to what I feel now. It's as if this whole ordeal has just been to make me realize that I know nothing of pain yet—that I knew nothing of how bad things could be. I was foolish to think that things wouldn't get any worse, I was foolish to think that stopping fighting was ever the answer. I should have fought longer and harder. I should have died.

The flames start to engulf the tree and I can't tear my eyes away as my eyes burn with tears. I wonder if President Rubel can feel it yet? Can he feel my hate? Can he feel the hate of what he's done to the Rebels? To all of the Districts? He may break us now, but we will rise against him. I hope he can feel the flames already.

I try to hold on to this feeling. I want to remember what I was given by him so that I can return the favour in kind. My vision begins to blur as the flames dance wildly and reach further into the heavens. Can you see it yet President Rubel? Can you see the fire that will sweep Panem?

I just hope I have enough power to do it.

…

The funeral pyre burns for hours as the Peacekeepers keep vigilance in the distance, but when the sun sets they drive us to our homes. I have no old home to go back to; I'm forced into a new house at the far end of town where all of my possessions has been moved. It's one of twelve identical houses that I can see in the dim light. I enter into it alone and I'm surprised to find that when I flip the switch I have actual electricity. But it doesn't prepare me for what is in front of me.

Cristoff.

My battered and bruised body rushes to him. Even though my limbs ache, my body bleeds from over a dozen cuts, and though I reek of smoke, ashes, and death—it doesn't compare to the ache I feel inside of me. It is so deep and transcending that it makes the ache of any wounds fade away into oblivion as my fingers wind up into his dark hair. My hands grip it in tufts as I press him tighter into me as the tears pour out of my eyes and glide against his skin.

His fingers glide along my arms, up to my shoulders, and then descends to my waist where he ensnares me against him. We break away briefly as I bury my face into his neck and I breathe in the delicious scent of him—which is intangible to describe. The scent is simply him.

"I didn't think we'd say hello again," he whispers softly into my hair as his fingers glide up my back leaving a trail of fire behind.

"I didn't intend to," my voice catches. "Not at this cost. I wanted to see you again so desperately…but…I couldn't…" The tears pour down my cheeks again as he wipes them away, "I couldn't kill him."

"I know," he says softly as his kisses the tip of my nose.

"I saw you every time I closed my eyes and it wasn't enough."

"I'm here now…" I can feel the heat of his whisper on my skin.

I don't need another invitation.

I melt in to him so completely that I don't remember how we get upstairs to a room. I don't even bother looking around or caring to see what it looks like as we collapse on to the bed.

No matter how hard I try, no matter that our clothes are soon on the floor, I can't seem to get close enough to him after all the miles that have separated us. His hands explore my body and he touches each new scar that I've acquired since we've been apart as if he's trying to still make sure that he knows every inch of my skin. My fingers rove over the skin on his back, when I feel him flinch slightly. My fingers trace over the scars so freshly healed over, and I'd know them anywhere by their texture—lashes. They're layered over the thick scar tissue that was once his smooth back.

"It doesn't hurt as much the next time they beat you," he whispers confirming what I know. Each lash can only cut you so deep over time. It cannot cut into your mind, and it's hard to go past the thick scar tissue when you've been beaten as often as he has.

"I'd know you in the dark by them," I whisper back as our words fall to nothing.

His hands move against my skin, evoking feelings in my body that I thought was beyond feeling. His lips cause fire wherever they touch. The trails his lips leave behind burn like a streaking comet against my skin until I feel that I am nothing but flames myself.

The way we move together is so practiced, so perfect because we trust each other—because we are familiar with each other that it is second nature to us. I don't have to think how to please him—I know. He is an extension of me, a piece that makes me feel half alive when it is gone.

Tonight, we are together as the flames course through us, as we burn up in the fires of passion not caring for bruises, ashes, or dried blood. Nothing matters except for each other.

My mind explodes and all worries about yesterday, today, or tomorrow fade from my thoughts. I drink in the essence of him and I become recharged with the will to fight and live. I struggle to bring him closer to me, because he is never close enough to satiate my need.

We hit the breaking point together and my lips melt into his with a soft moan. Yet, it's still awhile before we part—the need to be close still so essential to us both. Finally though, I find my head on his chest and his lips buried into my hair as we lay there in the darkness.

I feel my mind float from the disconnect from reality he has given me, away from the relief into the real world. It's not hate that fills me and drives my mind as I lie there—it is love. My need to help him to survive—to live even if it costs me my life to do it. It's his arms that help me keep my resolve, and for once in my life I remember that this is what it means to be happy. Lying her I his arms, I could die of happiness.

I kiss him softly, and I think of him—of Alexia who will have no one to volunteer for her now if she's called next year, "We're going to start another rebellion."


	18. Seed of Rebellion

**__****Okay this is a information packed chapter. I hope you enjoy it, I hope it comes off right. It's a lot of setting up for the next few chapters. Getting closer to the end T_T**

**And getting close to 200 reviews! Goal is to make it by the last chapter!**

**Next update Wednesday, and probably a little more info about the end then too. Phoenix goes up later today. My husband works nights and he got off EARLY today. Like never ever happens. So we're going to go cuddle and Phoenix will be up later this afternoon after I do my once over.**

_**Theres no committee that says, This is the type of person who can change the world and you cant. Realizing that anyone can do it is the first step. The next step is figuring out how youre going to do it.**_

_** Adora Svitak**_

It isn't easy to adjust to life back in twelve.

We are given more food than we were, but the Peacekeepers are always present watching us and waiting for some sign of dissent. We never give it to them. At first, I'm lost without Alaric to help me plan—his voice of reason, his mind for tactics is so odd to be vacant from setting this in motion. But Cristoff is more than capable to help me—he's just not Alaric. It's just not the same talking with Cristoff, because Alaric was there longer. He was there from my childhood, he was the one who held my hand when my little brother didn't make it through his first winter—we were six then.

He is gone too now. He can no longer help or comfort me. But that isn't quite true—his memory alone is comfort. But right now it's his words that stick with me most. He'd always told me that if you wanted something long enough and bad enough, you'd get it in the end. We've paid too much—he's paid too much for us to back off now…

Cristoff and I talk of plans long into the night. Each day we assess the movements of the Peacekeepers—the numbers and reactions to certain situations. We figure out which buildings are essential to be taken if we're to have a chance to keep the district. But all of that is the easy part. Knowing what to do is seldom the problem, figuring out how to get it done is the real issue.

How can you start a Rebellion without weapons?

Most people don't even have knifes unless they're in a trade that needs one. We use to be allowed to have small blades, but that ended with the Rebellion. Having a blade now was punishable by death. Getting them was next to impossible, though a few could be had here and there. The other weapons were in the mines.

Everyday in the mines, men work with pick axes and some minor explosives; but, those are counted meticulously so that nothing can be stolen. We need those supplies, but the problem is figuring out how to get them without them realizing that we have them.

It's Aelman that comes up with the idea. It's simple really—quite ingenious if we can pull it off. Of course, if we're caught we'll all be hanged for it. Theory is that if you accidentally use too much dynamite in an area that has small stores of dynamite that you could smuggle out a few sticks very carefully. The risk, of course, being that you could be captured or accidentally blow yourself up—the second being the preferable one.

The dynamite wouldn't be too hard to get if that worked, but the pick axes were a different story. There was no way to smuggle them out during an explosion. It's then that we come up with the idea of scavenging the broken ones.

The Capitol gets rid of the picks if they're broken because it's easier to get new ones then to repair the old ones. But when you need a weapon—any weapon, even a broke one will do. Alaric's father receives all of the pick axe heads to be melted back down and reshaped. When he receives our askance to create us weapons, he agrees and tries to figure out a way to smuggle them out. He has nothing left to lose—the Rebellion and now the games have taken all the family he had.

He discovers that he can smuggle away one to two axe heads a day. The old miner of the district—Clude, volunteers to go take the axe heads to houses to arm them. No one pays attention to him since he was in the mine accident years ago, he's been begging on the streets for longer than I've been alive. He does odd jobs here and there and is invited into houses for a small bite—enough to help him live at least the past twenty years. It's under this cover that he can sneak from house to house.

Dallas is in charge of setting off the explosion in the mines. He's got one good leg, and he's respected and talented enough to be in charge of the dynamite. He knows how to measure a blast down to the exact amount needed—and he's always the one to lay a charge.

It's late on a Saturday when the sound of a bomb rocks the earth. Black smoke and ash billows from the mine. It takes over two hours for everyone to get out. There aren't any casualties, but a whole area has collapsed from instabilities. No one even thinks to question Dallas who's always been right with his calculations of explosives or check the limp leg of his pants for where he hid the dynamite—three precious sticks of it.

It's not much, but those three sticks are essential to any hope we have of making this Rebellion work. It's late in the evening before the precious stick are given to me and secured in the hollowed out railings to the second floor. My house will be the safest to keep it in until it's time. It's only because of Clude's ability and notoriety of begging that we even have the ability to hide the sticks here.

…

Things have gone smooth for too long. When things are quiet and peaceful for too long, people begin to notice. Eventually, you realize that there's something being planned or that something's going on. Ambrose is a smart man, and as I go into town I can see the suspicion on his face. It's then we decide that we've got to keep him distracted. Too much or too little action and he'll know we're trying to divert him.

It takes a few days before we find someone who's willing to take the beating—another young man from my regiment, Curtis. He's careful, very careful. Though he's been sneaking outside the boundaries for years, he's never been caught. Yet, he was the one who volunteered.

Two days later, he's caught coming in with some fish. We're forced to watch as he's slapped around and then lashed to a post. I watch his fingers flex before he makes fists to prepare for the oncoming pain. I could tell him from experience, nothing helps.

Ambrose has his shirt peeled of, and Curtis white back is bare of any scar or blemish. He calls up my former soldier Jackson and gives him the whip. For a moment both Ambrose's eyes and Jackson's eyes find mind. I grit my teeth as Ambrose stares at me and Jackson brings the whip down strongly. I hear the sharp exhale that Curtis makes as the lash delves into his back and rips the skin downward. Layer upon layer is peeled away until I'm afraid I'll see bone. But he doesn't scream at all, and even though he can't walk when it's over he does try to crawl.

I'm the first to get to him, unfazed by the blood and I pull him up to me. Jackson's eyes look at me coldly. I stare at him again, "You should be—"

"Proud of myself," he finishes as a smile flits across his face.

I want to say more, but I don't want to push this further so I let it go. The warm blood is pooling beneath my fingertips as I get a firmer grasp on Curtis and tug him toward home. Pretty soon after, we've got him to his family and situated on a table face down. He's in so much pain, but there is little to nothing we can do for him. In this heat, the man concern is larva and maggots from flies.

We're able to acquire some rotgut whiskey that eases him into a stupor where the pain has less power over him. His eyes become hazy as he drifts in and out of consciousness over hours. Before Cristoff and I leave, I can see him smile through the pain. "I'm just like you now Lieutenant. I've earned my stripes now," he laughs slightly before passing out.

It's hard to watch him suffer, to watch any of them suffer over the next few months. There's a few infractions here or there that cause just enough of a diversion to keep Ambrose away from what we're really planning—a fight in town, another hunting failure, and one for arguing with a peacekeeper. I watch each of them get punished and then try to put themselves back together enough to heal.

Curtis' shoulder hasn't been the same since his beating. So many layers of skin had come off that the thick scar tissue didn't' slide easily when he moved his shoulder. He'd never be the same with it, and yet he seemed like he was glad for it. He said it put him on more "equal terms" with us. He didn't understand that in my eyes, we'd always been equals.

…

It's been three months since the Games have ended and Amelia has found someone else to love, Avery, a tall man—a miner with grey eyes and dark hair. He lived a few blocks over from my old home in the poorer part of town called the Seam. It's a joke the Peacekeepers have going about our threadbare clothes, always showing seams—always so many with so little. Always on the "brink" or the "seam" of being anything worthwhile. But far better to be poor than an ignoble Peacekeeper.

Finally, I get word that I have certain duties to perform as a Victor. I'll be expected to travel from District to District to rub in the fact that I came home. They want to make us separate for good—they want to destroy the links we have to each other. However, they don't realize they're giving me my best shot at a Rebellion—at allies.

All I have to do is get them to listen.


	19. Para Bellum

**Thanks for bearing with me!**

_**Si vis pacem, para bellum.**_

_**Latin adage meaning, "If you wish for peace, prepare for war." Essentially meaning peace through strength and/or that if you want peace you may have to fight for it.**_

It's freezing cold when I board the train. It's the first time in years that I've had a warm coat. Even though it feels like a little bit of betrayal to use the clothes given to me by the Capitol—it would be foolish for me to waste them. When I first cared to look around in my new house, I'd found closets full of so many clothes that I couldn't even imagine ever wearing them all.

I'd grown up only owning three pairs of pants at any given point in my life and maybe four shirts—and one coat. I wore that coat until I was fifteen, and then I gave it up for my only other coat—my military coat. Right now, I was wishing I'd brought it with me even though it wouldn't keep me that warm in this bitter cold. It was resting in my closet, waiting for me.

The other coats and clothes, I'd given away. It seemed wrong to have so much when others had so little. All, I really needed was one coat anyways.

My eyes drift to the window pane as the scenery speeds by. It seems odd to be back on a train. I try to remember the places I've been to, and all the people I know. Thinking about it is excruciating when so many of the faces that pop into my mind are beyond helping me or anyone anymore. It's like some check list of death where the surprise is to find the odd one in my mind that's still living—and that was before, who knows which of them is alive now?

The warm smell of coffee drifts into my nostrils as Cyanide sits down across from me. He hands me a cup with steam rolling off of it, and I accept it without comment or thanks. We sit in silence as we both sip our hot beverages. I relish the burning in my mouth and tongue, not even bothering to try to cool it as I gulp down another charring mouthful.

Cyanide and I have made peace. No words have passed between us, but I think he, in part, understands what I'm going through in his limited way. He feels sorry for me—I hate his pity, but if his sympathy comes with it I can learn to wield that. But he never broaches the subject, he never does anything but just be kind. It gives me reason to not hate all of the Capitol. There is some hope for them yet.

"Are you okay today?" His voice is kind.

I turn to look at him, appraising him. His eyes are kind, his face looks older than the last time I saw him. The dark circles under his eyes aren't even covered by cosmetics. His tattoos and dyed hair are the same as always, but he's not the same man anymore. I give him the only answer I can, "I'll never be okay, again."

After that, he sits there and we fall back into silence each of us lost in our own minds.

…

It's always been alarming to me to see District Eleven in the winter. They're not as cold us naturally, but it's not as lush with life as it typically is. There are some crops to harvest, but it is not a busy time.

The train starts to slow, and I know that we're about to pull into the station. I pull myself to my feet, my leg still in pain and unrecovered from my injury. I feel Cyanide's hand tight on mine, "Listen, we're about to be there." I try to jerk my arm away from him but he tightens his hand around me. "You'll do what they want unless you want the rest of the people you care for to die."

I stop struggling against him as he looks at me like a scared boy. He's determined to finish his speech though. "You have to sing the praises of the Games or at least not say anything wrong. Everyone you know is in danger. You'll give speeches, you'll talk with people."

He lets go of my arms and moves slightly away from me and straightens his shirt. His hands are shaking lightly. I realize now that maybe he's in danger just as much as I am. I don't speak to him on the matter or break the fragile hold he has on his mask. My voice is gentle, "You worry too much about my social graces. I know what I'm doing."

"I hope so," he fixes the cuffs of his sleeves as the doors open. The air has a slight chill to it as I walk out. A few cameramen get in my face, and I have to stop myself from punching them or reacting badly. I make my way to the Justice building and remember when I was there last.

I can almost see Gem walking up the stairs, a bandage around her shoulder and head as she handed me what they'd told me I'd never be able to get. She was the best raider, she could get anything you asked but they had told me that even she couldn't get me this. And yet, she'd brought it to me at the precious cost of shortened lives. But it had changed the tide of the war. I still remember thinking she was a ten year old child when I saw her. She was already sixteen.

I shake the hand of the Mayor, and I let them know I'm sorry for their loss. His hand tightens around mine, and I remember dimly that Harvest was his nephew or cousin or something. "Thank you for the respect you gave them," I know he means how it ended with Harvest standing with us.

We are given some time alone before I'm to make my speech. He's tired, very tired when I whisper to him what we're planning. He seems to be carefully considering it, "I have kids—the oldest is of age to be reaped this coming year."

"They could be picked anyways," I point out. I can see him considering as he closes his eyes. "I know what you're scared of. I'm scared that Alexia will be chosen again and that this year there will be no one to volunteer for her."

"But she is not your child," he raises his hand before I can retort. "I will do what I can. We will do what we can…Somehow I think my children may be chosen anyways."

"Thank you," I whisper.

…

The speech went off okay. I thank them for their sacrifices, and speak of how good their tributes were before we leave.

We're at the next District the following morning. Ten is bubbling underneath the surface. You can feel the dissent and anger there as soon as we step off the train. I learn quickly that all of Canta and Mikal's family are dead, dealt with months ago. Losing a child and a grandchild had been too much for them, and losing them had been too much for this District. I don't even have to offer much of a plan before the mayor agrees.

Nine is seething with rage at my cold-hearted murder of Horcaf. They are intolerant to me or my speech. Their hate is barely contained and I can hardly blame them thought it irks me that the Capitol's plan has worked so well. Eight is indifferent to me or my pleas. They are content with not fighting for now. They don't see the benefit of fighting now. Seven is kinder than I expected after Nine, but they are still pained to see him. Fergus and Fern were beloved by them, and they say they are barely surviving. If we had caught them earlier, maybe they could help—they had rebelled somewhat too soon.

Six is electric when we get there. Their shouts and screams of my name fill my ears. I can barely move without being grabbed, hugged and handed off to someone else. I see the hands tighten on guns in peacekeeper's hands. I watch as warning shots are fired until they're forced to hit the ground. I realize that this had been drilled into them as I stand there unmoved by the sound of the gunfire.

How different I am to them. I stand there unmoved by the sound of chaos and shouts as they force control. My fingers itch to take the Peacekeeper who appears beside me's gun. But I refrain, no good will come of starting anything now. No matter my words, my voice brings them back to a fever pitch. Even though I only get twenty seconds with the mayor, he agrees wholeheartedly.

Five is disinterested just like eight.

As the train rolls into four, the doors opens. There are no cameras only a solitary man standing there grasping a small child's hand—then there is no one around them for yards. His face is pale and pained. He's not afraid as he stands there with his lips in a thin white line. My heart stops when I realize who it is. Eckler, the man I'd met just once before when he'd asked the blessing of her best friend since her family was gone—Victoria's husband.

I want to apologize. I want to fall on my knees and beg for mercy before him. My lips go to form the words sorry, but he pulls Melanthe in front of him. I barely catch his words as he whispers, "Keep your eyes straight ahead. If you hear a sound, remember to do what you're taught." His hands are shaking on her shoulders and I see him close his eyes tight for a moment and bite his lip before looking back at me. My lips open again to say I'm sorry, but his head barely moves and dismisses me. But it's kind, not in a way that shows his loathing.

I don't understand what he's doing, what this means as I take a step forward. My eyes shift up by some sixth sense, I can feel the presence of him before my eyes find him. Atop the justice building is a thin man in a white uniform crouching, the barrel of the rifle so black against his uniform and the blue cloudless sky.

I taste the salt as I turn to face him, and the wind blows slightly as he grimaces knowing I've seen the truth a moment before it's to happen. He's not here to greet me with the child of Victoria's he raised as his own. He's not holding her in place because of disobedience, but to get her out of the sight of the man on the building.

It all comes so fast in my brain—the noticing, the knowledge, and then the understanding. My eyes go back to his and I see his face is lined with a path of tears. In some great moment, he feels it before it comes. His hands tighten on her shoulders and push Melanthe down a split second before the bullet pierces his brain.

Tiny flecks of blood and brain matter hit me as he falls like a stone to the ground. Melanthe is lying there and if I hadn't seen his hands tighten on her shoulders, I would have thought they hit her too. The warm sticky spray sticks to my face and I feel it in my mouth. Even so far away, I can hear the sniper loading the chamber again.

I want to run to her, to throw my body of her and protect her but I'm afraid my trying to save her will draw more fire. But across the space runs a little girl with eyes the purple-blue of violets her hair hanging long down her back. Someone else rushes behind her, a tall merchant boy who runs fast. He looks years older than her by his size—she's so small she's almost elf-like. The girl throws her body over Melanthe who's only just smaller than her though about six years younger. Her body is shaking violently as the gun is raised and I'm pushing forward despite the pain in my leg to reach them when a scream fills the air.

A man—tall and blonde—rushes out. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" There's some hesitation, but he has enough standing that the man hesistates long enough that the man grasps his son to him and roughly pulls up the two girls close to him like ragdolls in his arm. Melanthe is covered in blood, her hands over her ears like her father had taught her. The merchant hurried away with all three children and disappeared into the crowd.

…

The rest of the visit in four was horrifying. There were gallows out ad rotten stench of bodies decaying was thick in the air. As I saw the gaunt bodies hanging there I'm jolted back to memories of finding my own family hanging. These people have suffered severely. The lash marks, the burns, and the bruises clear on their skin. They are broken.

It is no surprise when the mayor tells me there is nothing left for them to give right now, that it will be years before they can try again or they'll be like thirteen. I nod my head in understanding, wanting to challenge them to die rather than live like this—but I hold my tongue.

Instead I ask, "What will happen to Melanthe?"

The mayor smiles, "She will be safe with the miller. The Peacekeeper is fond of the bread he makes for him. The miller knew that one day he may need a favor so he has taken careful time to be polite and give him bread. The Peacekeeper will not touch the child not without losing his comfort."

"The miller is a wise man," I say.

Three is ill-equipped. There has been too much sickness in this harsh winter—they are barely surviving without making problems. They refuse my request. When I arrive in two, the atmosphere is thick. The sights that come to my eyes are shocking.

It is true, everything that I've heard. They are in with the Capitol, eager to at peace with them and serve them obediently. Mindless drones. They have moved themselves from pawns in chess to queens who defend the king at all costs. The sight of them makes me sick.

This is it then. This is why Edana made alliances. District two were the chosen ones—the ones who were supposed to be victorious. For the first time, I feel satisfaction in my win if only to rip it out of District Two's hand. But then I hate myself for hating them. Even I am falling into the Capitol's plans.

There is no use to try with Capitol one either.

When we get back on the train Cyanide tells me that we're not going back to the Capitol as was originally intended. It makes no impression on me, until he makes a point of saying I'm the exception to the rule. I raise a quizzical eyebrow at him.

He folds his hands in his lap as the night falls again, "They think it best for the safety of everyone if you didn't go back to the Capitol, just yet."

I couldn't help but smile. The truth at last—they were _afraid_ of me. They should be. In two months time, I plan to show them that it's not just me they should fear but anyone they dare to make a slave to them.


	20. Prelude

**.**

**_"We know how this is going to end."_**

**_"No we don't."_**

**_"Look everything I have done is to find the truth so I can spare her. I don't want her living off hope."_**

**_"There are worst things."_**

**_"You're wrong. Bad news stops us for awhile but then you move on. Hope is paralyzing."_**

**_Criminal Minds, Season Four, Episode 25 and 26 "To Hell...""...And Back."_**

Remarkably, when I get home—I can see that nothing has happened. My people are fine. There's a strong undercurrent though that's almost electric when I step off the train. Tension is boiling and bubbling, threatening to spill. The whole district is taut as a string that's about to be snapped. What has happened here since I've been gone?

I look around to see the solitary figure walking to me. I can see the cruel curve of his lips as he comes to greet me. But he never makes it there.

Jackson, my former comrade, stands in front of me. His jaw is clenched before a grimace breaks across his face. I glare up into his eyes with all the venom I can muster, "Move, scum."

His hand shoots out and I can feel my nose spewing blood as my hands come to cover my nose. Rough fingers grasp the back of my jacket and slam me to my knees. Before I can move, the whip cracks down on my back and I let out a small cry as the thin jacket rips.

"What are you doing?" Ambrose's fingers pull at Jackson's wrist as I fight to keep myself still, from causing any danger to those I love.

"She disrespected me," there's a hot flash of anger in Jackson's face. "That's a punishable offense, isn't it?"

I can see the smile flit across Ambrose's face, "Then maybe we should hurt her where it counts—with her family." I can feel the ice in his voice, the want to destroy me—to cripple me. I feel my heart catching in my chest as if I can't breathe.

Jackson's voice is smooth, persuasive, "But punishing her destroys any ideas the District has, or will ever have. She, herself, should be shown to be touchable." I can hear the velvet in his voice, remember that same voice as he interrogated our prisoners. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

"You make a point," Ambrose smiles. "Carry it out then."

My hands are gripping the dirt as I'm hefted to the center of town. The crowd surges forward, pushing as I'm dragged along without struggling. Dimly, I notice that the train with Cyanide has pulled away. There's a throng of voices, I can feel the tension rising as I'm thrown back down. My mouth fills with dirt as one hand is yanked to the side and tied to a pole.

The heat of the crowd presses in, and I know they think now is the time. But it's not. It's too soon—no one is ready. I throw up my hand halting them before it's jerked away and tied to another pole. My arms are stretched out wide like some grotesque form of a hug. But they've stopped pushing. Every eye is focusing on me, waiting for a word—an action to charge me.

Jackson's voice is low, but it carries as he kneels behind me. His breath is hot on my neck. "All the people here to watch their glorious leader take a beating." He runs his hand under my chin and lifts it to the crowd, "Look at them." The stillness carries as I see something happening, Ambrose is dragging Alexia forward and the crowd barely contains itself as she kicks and screams over his shoulder.

"I think this one should be punished too," he throws her down in front of me and she crawls towards me—her small body under mine. I clamp my body over her and my legs to protect her fiercely.

Jackson's voice carries the hint of a frown, "I have a better idea, if you'll allow it."

Ambrose raises a skeptical eyebrow, "What could be a better idea than this?"

Jackson's voice is again by my neck, "Emera…" Velvety, angelic voice… "You want to protect Alexia?" I can feel her hands clutching my chest and I see people holding back Cristoff and Alexia's other brothers and father.

"Yes," I answer without a thought.

He looks up at Ambrose, "Then scream for me while your people watch. Break their spirits, crush their souls. Convince us…that you have suffered enough for both of you and she'll be spared."

Ambrose grabs Alexia and drags her from me, her shrill voice crying out for me in fear. I can hear Ambrose laughing, realize that they want me to shed all my dignity in front of my people—they want to destroy the resolve of the girl who defied them so openly here and in the games by forcing her to scream so that someone she loved would not suffer.

I swallow hard, the muscles in my jaw tensing as the whip is brought down heavily on my back. I scream louder than I've ever screamed in my life. The sound ripping from me like the death cries of some wild beast as Alexia breaks into sobs. I push all my dignity aside, all my reasons for remaining impassive and let all the hate bubble to the surface as the whip comes down again and peels open the back of my clothes.

Inhuman, desperate, and deranged cries pour forth from my lips as the whip comes down harshly over and over. I hate myself for the sounds I'm making, for the way I'm being forced to act. I want nothing more than to stare Ambrose down and choke down the pain. But Alexia—

My voice is raspy after a few screams, but Jackson's arm comes down harder. I can see the flecks of blood on Alexia's face as she sobs on the ground still held by Ambrose—I can see the maniacal delight in his eyes. The crowd is sick with the screaming, sick of the sight of it. I hear the sounds and then the smells of vomiting as all vestiges of the shirt I wore are ground or ripped off my back.

The whip cuts into the soft, tender flesh on my side and another cry tears out and is choked off for a moment. I scream and scream, I fight the bile in my throat as I feel the untarnished skin of my side ripping away—but he does not stop though I can feel he's losing strength.

Edges of blackness threaten to consume my mind and push me into the embrace of darkness as the cries choke in my throat raspily until I cannot make a sound. His hand comes down one more time, but despite the rawness of my back—I cannot feel it anymore.

I can hear, more than feel the ropes near my hands being cut away. My body falls heavily and jars me so much that I almost blackout. I can feel dirt in my mouth, choking my nostrils but its so much pain to move myself from the ground that I'd just be easier to suffocate on the dirt.

I can see the slick red boots of Jackson as he walks by in front of me. I realize vaguely that those boots were once black, not a bright undiluted crimson and the red flecks on his pants aren't paint. A harsh, coarse laugh breaks over me then shatters as everything melts into a blackness filled with ghosts.

…

A horrible gurgling sound fills my ears as my body jerks awake to pain. I realize with horror that strangled gurgling sound is all I can make with my dull, aching throat. My body wants to react, to fight against the pain that is coursing through me. Hot fire down my back. All that fills me is desperation as I hear voices shouting, "Hold her legs down! Stop Emera! Hold her!"

The heaviness that descends on my appendages panics me as a soft voices come into my ears, "You don't have to fight anymore. Hold on, baby…" Kind hands touch my face and the feel of them stops me and comforts me despite the pain. I know those hands, I know that voice. I can feel it filled with tears, tears I've not heard in a long time. "Hol-hold on," he begs. "Don't fight, we're helping you. It's going to bad for awhile. Don't leave me. Hold on fo-for me." His voice chokes in the stillness of the room.

I can't move my hands towards him, I can't say words to comfort him or tell him I understand. I lean into his hand and force my eyes open into the dizzying light. Reflected back at me, is the most beautiful pair of grey eyes—grey eyes that looked up at me dead in my dreams. I can feel the tears gliding down my face in a sideways pattern dripping to the floor.

His fingers brush back the tears, "Hey there beautiful." I can see the tears on his face as he wipes mine away. "I'm here, I won't leave you. I promise." The pain bites into me and I try not to scream as my body jerks against my will. "Just look at me, stay with me." His hand strokes the back of my head and kisses my temple as another shoot of pain takes me under.

…

Dizzy, frantic delusions. The world tumbles headlong before me. I hear half gurgled screams, I wake to fighting tooth and nail for life to be quieted by the voice of Cristoff that never leaves me. Every time I wake, he's there holding on to me. It brings me some small comfort looking into his face.

It's a week before the pain abates enough that it keeps me awake instead of causing me to pass out. I spend hours biting my lips and trying not to cry, try not to make my body shake with the sobs that hurt me worse.

But days pass and I'm able to stay awake and eat. Eventually, I'm able to sit up a few minutes before having to lay still again for hours. It takes three weeks before I can stand and walk moderate distances. I can barely lift my arms, and I can't leave my house at all though there are things I need to do—provisions I need to make.

Alaric's father comes to visit me, tells me that Amelia and Avery are expecting a child. He gets to be the grandfather still, because she only has him and he only her now—but he cries when he tells me how he wishes it was Alaric's and Amelia's instead. We both cry for Alaric who's gone from us forever, for children he shall never have—for a world that is that much more desolate without him.

When we part, and unbow our heads from tears he squeezes my hand tightly pressing into it a finely crafted pin. My fingers part and I see a golden circle of a pin. Connected to the circle by the wingtips is intricately detailed mockingjay.

"He made them sing for you," Alaric's father's voice breaks. "That last day, he whistled that tune of the place that we're fighting for."

I remember in the arena…

_I would watch them back home, I would tell my people to look at them. Cast out by the Capitol and yet they thrive and evolve. They become new, they become Mockingjays. Right now, all we have to do is survive._

_Alaric stands up and whistles the tune to Cristoff''s song, and they each tilt their heads in interest. One comes closer to him and tilts his head as if he's mesmerized by the tune. I can tell by his actions that he will never forget our tune and through that we will live on._

Alaric's father sobs again as I let the words slip from my lips, "He should have let me die. He should have come home. He should have—"

He cuts me off, "No." His voice is sharp as he clutches my hands desperately, "He knew that you were the only one capable of making this happen. That of the two of you, you were the one that could make the world the place in that song. He knew that, he sacrificed himself so that you could make that happen. I like to think that's why he whistled it then. I like to think that's why he chose you instead of Amelia, instead of me. I love him enough, I wish he'd killed you. But he's a better man than me—and he died for you. He gave his future so that we could have ours. Don't you dare wish he hadn't done it. I've wished it enough, though it shames me to admit it. Make his sacrifice have meaning."

He lets go of my hands, his eyes looking at me feverishly as I squeeze the small pin in my hand again, "It's always had meaning to me. It's why I've fought this long."


	21. Waiting

**At first, I named this chapter trash. Because I hated it, it would not come together. The image was fully formed but no matter what I did or didn't do it wouldn't form like it did in my mind. Finally, I laid it down and let it have it's peace and then it came to me. Now, by far, this is not my favourite chapter and I would have made it longer…but I can't without messing up the next chapter which is so pivotal in the entire story. Something, I've laid out since the very beginning. So I'm sorry for this being so short—much shorter than I wanted, but trust me. I think what comes next will make up for it. I should be able to let everyone know the official end date soon. **

**Update Saturday!**

**Edit: Check out my friend's first ever HG fanfic-a oneshot!**

** s/8100091/1/Poison**

_**"Patience is power.**_  
><em><strong>Patience is not an absence of action;<strong>_  
><em><strong>rather it is "timing"<strong>_  
><em><strong>it waits on the right time to act,<strong>_  
><em><strong>for the right principles<strong>_  
><em><strong>and in the right way."<strong>_  
><em><strong>― Fulton J. Sheen<strong>_

Alaric's father gave me the pin and for hours I sat there staring at it. I was doing this for Alaric as much as for myself. Every single piece of this plan was as if he was there with me as if his hand was guiding it.

Days were spent rehabilitating. It was difficult and painful, but the thought—the idea that I was going to be incapable of actually participating in the fight I'd so carefully orchestrated was unbearable. I gritted my teeth each and every day and bore through the pain.

There wasn't much to do ahead of time except prepare people. Almost half of the district was armed with at least one weapon. Many more would be available when we got a foot hold and could get them from the mine, and from the peacekeepers.

The whippings have increased, and not one of them are planned by me anymore. The whole spirit of the district seems broken but there's an undercurrent of pulsing hatred. They have no idea what we're planning or what we're capable of anymore.

Ambrose and Jackson's names are uttered in words of dread or fear. Their punishment rains down roughly on anyone who dares do anything wrong. Words can't express how much they are truly hated. In some ways, Jackson is more hated because of having been one of us.

…

I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe it. Two weeks before it's supposed to happen, and I'm in a panic. All these precautions that I've taken and still here I am in this…situation. It's not that I'm against it, because I do want children. I want them, but not in this world. If we win the Rebellion, I want them. But if I live if we fail…no matter how much I love them, I will not raise them for slaughter. I will not raise them to go in the games.

Any child of mine would almost be guaranteed to be forced into the games. My hands go to my stomach involuntarily as I touch what could be the haven of growing life. I'm going to war, possibly pregnant.

Cristoff and I have been extremely careful but fate it seems would have it another way. The days go by and I just keep hoping that it's a mistake that I'm just late, but each day that goes by that hope grows fainter.

What am I going to do?

A child. A child in this world while I'm planning a rebellion…what kind of cruel fate is this? I'm going to be fighting and maybe dying while I may be growing a child inside of me. Survival is crucial for me, for this baby…but survival at what cost? I won't stop fighting because I'm pregnant. I won't lay down my arms and have a few years to spend with my child before they take him or her away to the Games. I can't stop fighting. A part of me wishes that it wasn't happening that I wasn't having a baby…

When it comes though, I'm not entirely sure that I'm glad that I'm not with child. It had just been stress and anxiety keeping nature away from taking it's course—there never was a child. Despite my lack of wanting to raise one for slaughter, of wanting to have one now….I loved it even though it wasn't real. Now that it's nothing more than a passing thing, a dream that wasn't meant to be and may never be….I miss it so desperately.

What would it matter here at the end of all things if I was pregnant for awhile before I died? For a little while, I would have been happy…But instead it wasn't meant to be. I suppose it'll be easier then to fight not worrying about it…not worrying about what if I lose. It'll keep me from hesistating to lay down my life if it's required.

But it doesn't stop me from crying for things that could have been.

…

My fingers glide over the golden circle over and over again, each and every day as the days tick down. It's the same today. Everything has been ticking down to this moment. It is the day before our decision…everything that has happened in the past few months has been for this.

The sound of a knock at the window brings me from my thoughts. I watch as Cristoff gets to his feet and opens the window. A white hand reaches through, and Curtis comes through shoulders first smiling at me. His face is smudged with dirt as he drops to the floor.

Little by little they filter into the house as the lights are dimmed and we're sitting there in the semi-darkness. Several men and a few women are huddled around the floor all staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to do something.

Finally, Curtis is the one that asks. "Tomorrow, we make the big push. But you asked us all here tonight," he pauses. "What are we…"

"We're waiting," I say it patiently as I turn the pin over and over again. The gold reflects as I am lost to their voices asking me questions, as I'm lost in recollections of this past month….

"Emera?" There's a tentative voice asking me and I look over at Curtis again.

"Yes?"

"What are we waiting for?"

Before I can answer, there's a soft sound at the door. Everyone turns deadly silent, I see Curtis grab something heavy as he gets to his feet. I can see faces paling, and hands clenched. Who could be here at this hour? No one good.

Their faces show each and every fear. We've been found out, they're going to kill us all—we won't get the chance to fight. It's going to be over before it even begins. Curtis moves forward, ready to attack—ready to at least get the chance at something.

The door shuts just as softly, and there are footsteps in the hall. No one is breathing, no one is moving when he steps around the corner clad completely in white. I hear someone inhale sharply, someone else curses, and Curtis moves forward slightly.

A hand is on the strap of the gun that hangs on his back, the stark black against the uniform made completely of white. He steps around the corner and looks around the room as everyone stands frozen.

I'm the first to my feet my hand stopping Curtis from attacking. He looks at me in confusion as I walk to the peacekeeper slowly. I wrap my arms around him, "Welcome home, Jackson."


	22. The Truth of the Matter

**OMG, I was finally able to eat something other than crackers and apples today! WHOO! Anyways...hope you enjoy. I'll be responding to reviews/trying to catch up this weekend.**

**Phoenix is going to be updated as soon as I find the quote I need. Thanks for sticking with me and putting up with my sickness guys! And thanks, those of you that have checked out "Come to Finish Me Off, Sweetheart?" and those of you who have voted for me in the Pearl Awards! Thanks again!**

_**The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant. **_

_**Salvador Dali**_

His arms wrap tightly around me, and his voice is tired when he says it, "I'm sorry for what I did to you."

I let go of him, "Nothing more than I asked of you." He takes his cap off and sets it down as all those gathered there stare at him. He doesn't meet their stares. He seems ashamed to face them, "Corporeal Boggs, hold your head up."

He smiles as he looks up at me, such a sharp contrast for the Jackson Boggs we've seen the last few years. "I thought I'd never hear that title again," he swings the rifle off of his back and passes it to me.

"What's going on?" Curtis snaps in a harsh angry voice. "How can you act like this to him? How can you trust him?" His face is an angry mask of fury. I can't imagine what it must fee like to him, seeing me act this way to Jackson after the beating he gave me.

Cristoff comes forward and hands him a pile of neatly folded clothes of his which Jackson takes. He sits down on the bench and takes off his heavy boots as I turn to the silent, furious group behind me.

"Jackson never left us, he's been a spy for us for nearly three long years. I told him to do whatever it takes so he could help us now. I told him that when the time came—to use me if necessary to secure his place among the Peacekeepers. Don't hate him because he has done what I asked. He did this for each and every one of us knowing that he could die at any moment and no one would know or care that he was doing it for us."

_I stand there in the dark night. "We're not doing well," I adjust the bandage on my arm. "It's only a matter of time before…"_

_"Before it's over," Alaric finishes._

_Cristoff puts his hand on my shoulder gently, but I don't lean in to it as I look at __Jackson__. "I'm going to ask you to do something Jackson, and you have every right to refuse—but you're one of the few I trust enough to do this."_

_Jackson nods his head, "I'll do whatever I can to help Captain Emera." _

_I look at him, the dark hair and the grey eyes just like all of us. The fine features, the heavy shoulders that show he's worked. He's only sixteen and I'm asking him to risk his life for us so that if we lose…and if by some chance we win, he could be killed before I get to him._

_My voice is barely a whisper, "I want you to go to them. I want you to be one of them."_

_"You want me to betray our people?" His hands grip into fists._

_"I want you to establish yourself so that if this goes bad that we have someone we can trust on the other side," I say it calmly._

_"It's really that bad then?" He pushes his dark hair back. "What about my dad? What about my girl? What about my mom? What will they be told?"_

_"We can't tell them anything," I say bitterly._

_"You want me to leave them thinking I'm a traitor?"_

_"Do you want to risk their safety by telling them otherwise?"_

_He considers for a moment, "No. You're right. It'd be better this way…better, I guess wishing I was dead rather than worried for my life everyday."_

_"They couldn't hate you," I reach out and touch his arm. "You don't have to do this though."_

_"Who else would then? There's no one else is there?" I shake my head and I can hear him laugh though I can hear the tears behind it. "It's got to be me then. I'll do it because this is worth more than my own life." He takes a deep breath, "Tell me what I need to do."_

_"You're going to go to them and give yourself up. You're going to tell them about the raiders in the nick of time—that will cement their faith in you. Find a story and stick to it."_

_The look dawns on his face, the knowledge that good men are going to die to get him in as a plant. He looks sick. It's too much to ask, "Maybe I'll meet you in another life," he laughs lightly._

_I pull him to me and I hug him one last time as he goes to the other side—to where he will become the most hated man in our district._

"He's only done what I ask," I repeat. All eyes are on him and me. They don't know what to think, so they say nothing for now. He finishes dressing in the clothes that Cristoff gave him, just as Cristoff finishes putting on the Peacekeeper's uniform. Cristoff moves off down the hall as he looks at me.

I grip Jackson's elbow and pull him in to the kitchen, where Curtis trails behind. "It's true then? All of it?"

"Yes," I say as I pick up the bag full of supplies. "Listen," I stare into Jackson's eyes. "We don't have much time, tell me everything."

He hands me a ring of keys, "This is to the barracks—they're ready to be secured. This," he hands me another key—"is to the ammunition depot and the mines." Carefully, he takes out a map of the area. He points toward where we are, "We've got about a hundred peacekeepers right now. The train is here still so you can use it to jam the track or lead on."

I lean my flat hands against the table, "It's more than what we hoped for. It's still manageable though. We should be able to take most of them out while they're sleeping." Cristoff and his brother's drift back in with two or three others.

Jackson points at the far end near the Head Peacekeeper's house, "This is where the armoury is held. It'll be difficult to get past him. I could stay and do it. It would be—"

"No," I cut him off. "You've done enough of that. Keep talking."

He sighs, "There's plenty of weapons in there. Enough to arm the entire District." He points to different parts of the town and outlines how many guards are at each place.

"We'll take them each out during the explosion," I pull Curtis forward. "Pick out pairs of three who can eliminate them quickly and quietly. It's key." He nods and disappears to do my bidding.

Jackson flips the map over, "The problem is that District Eleven is only a half a day away at best. After you take the District you may have as much as ten hours or as few as five." He looked at me, "And honestly their peacekeeper size makes ours look pathetic. When are they supposed to start rebelling?"

"An hour after dawn, the peacekeepers should be on their way here by then. We'll catch them inbetween with what we have from the mines. How many?"

"Three hundred at least," he pauses. "They've been having a rough time of it. Are you sure they're in?"

"They gave me their word," I fold the map up and hold it to the candle. The flame catches light and pulls at the corner until the whole parchment descends into ash. "Curtis," I call.

"Captain?"

"Did you get the body, I asked for?" I watch as the flame flickers back down on the candle.

"Yes, we buried it underneath the trash bin like you said. Covered it in ashes and blood," he looks at me confused.

Jackson hands me a small pin of honor among the peacekeepers—I pass it on to Curtis, "Throw it in the hole. Make sure that everyone who saw him gets the story straight. We killed Jackson Boggs, burned his body and buried it under the garbage bin."

"I can stay, I can fight," Jackson almost pleads.

I hand him the bag of supplies, "I don't know if it's going to work here. But you can't be caught. You'll suffer worst of us all."

"I know," he pushes back his hair. "I know."

"You're going to go to where District thirteen was—see if there are any survivors. If you make it there, if you make it safe…then I want you to leave me a sign if you can." I push the pin into his hand, "Put the pin in the fallen log just past the fence a few hundred yards in—If there's no District thirteen, if you're just out there wandering then put it under the big boulder a few feet away. And whatever you do, stay away unless you get the sign I told you to look for."

"I know," he says flatly. He pauses for a moment, "Did my father suffer much before…"

"He didn't," I cling to his hand. "I told him at the end, he was so proud of you."

Cristoff comes back down the stairs his arms wrapped around his sister. She's dressed in warm clothes, my old military jacket. He kisses her gently on the head and her eyes are filled with tears.

Cristoff is struggling, "You stay with Jackson. He'll protect you. I'll see you again, I hope."

Alexia looks up at us. She's just past fourteen—she's begged to stay, to fight with the rest of us but we've convinced her to go with Jackson. She's useful enough to help him, and she's just a distraction to me if she's here. Maybe it's selfish to send her away and no others, but I deserve to be selfish just once.

"I love you," she grabs a hold of me and then Cristoff as Aelman comes in with another Peackeeper uniform on.

Alexia runs to Aelman as I push the bag of supplies into Jackson's hand more firmly until he takes it. "Be safe," I grip his hand tighter as he tucks a pistol inside of his coat. "May your arrow fly true."

Jackson grips my hand harder before letting go. He knows what kind of chance we have, and his words reflect it—it is the last words of our funeral rite, of the parting when one of us shall not meet again. "May you find peace at last," he grips Alexia's hand and Cristoff helps them through the window as they disappear into the night.

…

For a few moments, we just stand there and I have to choke back the tears in my throat. Sending her away was the best choice though—for her and for us. I turn back to Cristoff, "Let's get you ready."

I get the dynamite and secure it with him, making sure that he and Aelman are completely ready. "You know what to do right?"

"Plant the dynamite and wait. I know, Emera. We're as ready as we're ever going to be."

"What if it's not long enough? What if—"

Our lips meet and I know that this is it, this is the kiss before the goodbye. And just like with all those other kisses before battle—this could be our last. It tastes of pain and of ecstasy. Goodbye it says, I love you it promises, and may we meet again it hopes.

I break away from him, unable to endure it any longer. "The quicker you go, the quicker you can come back…" I feel the tears slipping down my face. Then just like that he disappears out the door with Aelman.

I brush at the tears in my eyes, and move back to the den where everyone sits. Silent hours pass in vigil. Some of the lucky ones sleep fitfully, but everyone else lays awake watchful and terrified. There are so many things that could go wrong—that may be going wrong this very minute. Cristoff and Aelman could be captured and shot for treason before any of this starts. Jackson and Alexia could be murdered going under the fence.

When finally my heart feels like it's going to beat out of my chest, the clock strikes three. In groups of two or three, we sneak out to where the guards are stationed. The cold wind blows, and you can feel the snow is coming again soon. It's going to be bitterly cold.

I'm loosing feeling in my fingers by the time it happens. Off in the distance, the sky ignites in flames. Panes rattle and burst—the ones lucky enough to have glass still. The guards in front of us turn their bodies toward the sound of the blast. Their eyes widen in terror as the barracks where they would be sleeping explode. The night air is filled with screams. By the time the sirens begin to wail, I've buried the knife just beneath one of the guard's ribs.

For a moment, his fingers struggle at my hands but he has no strength. His fingers grapple and then flail as a crimson river pours from his mouth. I pull the knife out, as the ground turns dark where he falls. Each of us take weapons—and head to the town square.

There's a multitude rushing out of homes with every weapon conceivable—blades, axes, even just pans or shards of wood. The wounded and bloody peacekeepers aren't prepared us, and we mow them down in sheets of gun fire everytime they try to escape.

Pretty soon, the sounds of gunfire fade away until all there is left is the sound of flames crackling mixing in with sounds of the dying.


	23. Not Today

_**"Survival is the celebration of choosing life over death. We know we're going to die. We all die. But survival is saying: perhaps not today. In that sense, survivors don't defeat death, they come to terms with it." **_  
><em><strong> ― Laurence Gonzales, Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why<strong>_

A perfect stillness falls over me. Everything slows down for just a moment. Most people lose their cool in battle. The sounds and sights overwhelm them and they freeze—but for me it brings perfect clarity. My heart speeds up, the tension of waiting fades from my body until I can't feel the pain that's been wracking my body anymore.

All of that happens in a split second it takes my legs to shoot forward. My heart pumps harder as the sound of gunfire splits the night. The few peacekeepers that stumble out of the building don't last long. A hail of gunfire greets them and they wither away as we run forward. We can't afford to have prisoners like them—not now.

We move forward cautiously as we get closer. The fire starts to die down from the wreckage of the Peacekeeper barracks. We kneel and check for pulses, and for weapons. The sound of firefight is far off besides for the occasional shot that breaks through the night air. Few of the peacekeepers are alive—most of which are, it's a kindness to put them out of their misery since they only have hours of intense pain left. However, there are a few that are sound—completely capable and barely wounded. It's harder for them, because it's not easing them out of this life—it's killing them because we are incapable of keeping watch over them. At this point, we have to control the District not just overpower it.

We move amongst them, finishing off the survivors despite their pleas otherwise—some of them are barely past reaping age themselves. It's mostly over by the time I reach the center of town. The rifle lies loose in my arms as I can the area for Cristoff and Aelman. All around me is nothing but a sea of dark colours, everyone has been careful to distinguish themselves from the Peacekeepers.

I motion for my group to come with me. It's quiet at this end of town—the end of town where Ambrose lives. The quietness seeps in like a disease. It's heavy and wrong. You can feel the unnaturalness in the air. We creep forward, each of us taking a different entrance.

We wait the thirty seconds before sweeping the house. My heart is pulsing loudly as I open the door. I sight down the rifle as I turn to check every crevasse as I move. We've done this before, we've trained for this. Not a sound or a breath is heard, as we move through the rooms. I catch a glimpse of one of my men and motion for him to go left while I take the stairs.

Moving cautiously, I make it to the first landing before I hear something. I freeze for a moment, using all my senses to try to figure out where and who it is. I move forward quickly, sweeping the first then the second room. The final room rests at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar when I nudge it with my foot. The door swings open to reveal three uniformed Peacekeepers. One lies on the floor, a blossom of dark red in contrast to the white uniform and room. The other Peacekeeper has a gun to the other Peackeeper's head—only he isn't really a Peacekeeper, he's Cristoff.

My gun is raised, my finger tight on the trigger as I watch him stare me down. It's not Ambrose, it's some other guy that holds Cristoff there over his brother's bleeding body.

"Put the gun down, and let me leave and I'll let him go," I can see the strain in his face. There's no clear way to get a shot in—no way to blow off the top of his head. Cristoff's shaking his head, and struggling against the man as I stand there.

"Don't move," I hold the gun tighter as Cristoff stops struggling. "Let him go now or else."

"Or else, what?" The harsh, scared laugh echoes in the empty room. "You can't get a shot on me. My terms or nothing."

My hand moves slightly, "Then…nothing." I pull the trigger. The bullet pierces through Cristoff's shoulder and into the Peacekeeper behind him. He staggers a moment, from the shock of being shot. Cristoff drops down as I pull off another shot without hesitation. The bullet melts into the skin above his nose and splatters his brain against the back wall as he crumples to the ground.

Cristoff gathers up the weapons, pressing his hand into his shoulder to staunch the blood. "He got Aelman and ambushed me. Ambrose was gone before we got here, he took the hovercraft."

"Are you okay?" I kneel in Aelman's blood and assess the damage. The gunshot is through his chest, and the blood is pouring out profusely.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me, worry about Aelman." His hand touches my cheek, and I lean in to it. "Hello again."

"Hello again," I give a small smile.

It takes twenty minutes to get Aelman bandaged and moved outside. Everything is chaos, the fire is dying down and the wounded lay where they have fallen. It's time to get a move on, we don't have much time.

I get a barrel from the side of one of the houses and move it toward the middle of the square. I pull myself up, my stiff leg refusing to cooperate. "People of District Twelve!" My voice rings out in the still air, and people begin to turn—begin to look towards me for direction.

"We don't have much time before they're coming back. We need to get set. Eric," I motion to Cristoff's brother who's closest in age. "Get the District armed and get everything from the mines. Christian, get food and water supplies and move toward the end of town. Start setting up barricades of anything you can find at the Victor's end. Set up the most there, and then put some further out. We need to hold as much of the town as we can, but have a safety to fall back on. Get the wounded consolidated and taken care of. Find what first aid you can. Burn the bodies of the dead, use the peacekeepers ruins. Kill any prisoners that are found and then burn them. We've got very little time."

I watch as they scurry off to complete tasks. Aelman is carried off to be tended. Amelia moves amongst the wounded, her hair tied back and her newborn son wrapped tight in a sling against her. Christian gathers supplies and starts getting organized as I turn to Cristoff and tend his wounds.

I press the bandage to his skin, stopping the bleeding. "I'm sorry, I shot you."

"It doesn't matter," he leans forward and kisses me. "How long?"

I look to the skies, "If the others come through like they're supposed to we won't see them till an hour or two after dawn."

"And if not?" Cristoff asks.

"If not, they'll be here before dawn and we'll never be able to hold them if the others don't rebel too."

…

The barriers are thin toward the front, and get more dense the closer they are to the Victor's houses. Windows are boarded up from the inside, offering more protection. Each house has a stash of supplies that can be easily grabbed in case we have to fall back. The barriers are still being enforced in areas as pink fingers creep across the sky.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the barricade, the rifle pressed into my shoulder loose but ready. The sounds of the birds starting to sing soothes me. The tension in my shoulders keeps my arms taut—seemingly relaxed but ready to spring at ay moment.

I can hear the steady breathing of everyone around me, waiting at the front line—waiting for them to come in and try to take us. Cristoff kneels beside me and I can feel the electric current that comes from his proximity overtaking me. We've survived earlier today, only to be lying here waiting while those behind us keep barricading.

Somewhere behind us, Aelman is suffering—barely keeping alive with the gunshot wound in his chest. Amelia is doing all that she can do to help him, but she let us know that we might not see him again—alive.

My hand reaches over to Cristoff's and I squeeze it. There is nothing we can do now, but wait. We're good at waiting. Unfortunately, we're not waiting as long as we would like.

The Mockingjays let out a shrill sound that lets me know the hovercrafts are almost here. I sound out the four note whistle and throw my arm up and around in a circle, "COVER!"

My voice echoes around the area loudly. The noise dies down, and people disappear as my hands slips out of Cristoff's. I shoulder the gun on to my back, and pull out the long bow.

Everyone knows by now, District Eleven has failed us or they're late. We should have had more time to get ready, but we don't. If they don't help us soon—then we'll be making our last stand.

I ghost over the barriers with a handful of stealth strikers armed with long bows and arrows. We move silently through the streets, getting closer to where the hovercrafts are touching down. They won't expect us to be this close. They'll begin to rush out of the hovercrafts expecting us to be behind the barricades, not here waiting forty yards away from them.

Evan gives a hand sign to me from the roof on the other side of the street. As one, we each draw an arrow and fire into the mass of peacekeepers that spill outside of the hovercraft.


	24. Malformed

This chapter is malfunctioned and will not update properly, please proceed to the next chapter.

Seriously, I don't know what the heck is wrong with it 0_o. I try deleting but it won't go away. It just stays...and stays...


	25. The Beginning of the End

**Thank you guys for bearing with me! I think I'm back! I may be a little slow getting back into things, but I think for the most part...I'm good. I'm feeling better. I'm able to eat, and I'm putting back on some weight. Boots the cat is still missing, and it's looking like...he's not coming back. It's been rough, but things are looking up besides for finding out I'm allergic to horseraddish...who'd have thought?**

**Anyways, I want to tell everyone about something very big and important that happened about... a week ago. I help run the 24 authors collaboration and we got a message about being interviewed for a publication. It was decided that I should talk to her as I'm the one in charge/does the updating/etc most of the time. **

**The interviewer talked to me for about thirty minutes about 24 collab and about my stuff and opinions. At the end of the phone interview, I asked her if this was really going to be published (the interview, I mean) and she said yes about a week from Thursday. So this Thursday or the next there could be an article about me/the collab I help run. I have no idea how much of a focus or...anything. I'm really quite nervous about the whole thing. I'll mention more details with my next update which I'm hoping to be back on Wednesday night.**

**The official end date of this SHOULD be the 23rd at the latest. This and the next chapter were supposed to be one chapter but because of size was cut in half.**

**Thanks for sticking with me and PLEASE comment to let me know you're still out there! Don't worry, I'll be getting back to all my review, favourites, etc that came while I was sick very soon. I'm working on them (and the several hunderd on the 24 account).**

**Edit: I'm hoping to have the next update of Phoenix up before Thursday (hoping for Wednesday, but I'm not going to push it)**

_**War is eternity jammed into frantic minutes that will fill a lifetime with dreams and nightmares.**_  
><em><strong>John Cory<strong>_

My arrow plunges into the uncovered throat of a peacekeeper as I load another one. The second catches another in the eye. For a moment the men around them are stunned, until they realize ten of them are down without a sound. Evan drops to his back and slides down and off the roof. I can hear the slap of his boots as he hits the ground in a crouch.

He hits the corner of his building just as I hit mine. We each fire off another shot into the peacekeepers before we run back towards the barricades together. We dash through an alley, around buildings, and make our way about forty yards further back before we take our positions again.

At first, they're confused. From this distance, it's easy to pick them off before moving to another vantage point. They can't get a bead on us, there's no echoes to help them with our location. They're down twenty more men, before they get to cover. It's too risky to try for another shot, so we make our way back to base.

We retreat to the first barricade and take cover. Evan gathers up the longbows and takes them. I'm panting, as I pull the rifle up to my shoulder. No one is advancing, we've bought ourselves some more time.

…

The sun is dipping down as more and more peacekeepers arrive. They're flooding in like a river after a dam's been busted. We can see them milling around, too wary to advance towards us until dark. It's obvious they plan to rush us at nightfall, but we're ready for them.

Cristoff comes with our group this time, each of us armed with rifles and long bows. We move stealthily through the familiar streets. Each of us taking a different vantage point, besides for Cristoff who is planting dynamite charges. I notch an arrow, as I crouch in the shadow of a chimney on a roof I use to pass by on my way to work. Carefully, I aim at one of the peacekeepers who seems to be in charge of a small group by the way he's gesturing and giving directions.

From this distance, I can't even see the colour of his eyes. I can't see the distinction in his features. It's part of what makes sniping the enemy off so easy. You're distanced from them—and it makes your feelings distanced too. The distance keeps you from sympathizing or caring. My fingers don't tremble or as hesitate as the arrow flies straight into his throat. It hits, just as I reload and send off another.

There are several more peacekeepers dropping from being hit or in an attempt to hide from our attack. Another arrow is notched and released into the top of a peacekeeper's head as he crouches behind a barricade. The ground is smeared with blood, and there's panicked cries filling the air.

As he falls, I begin to move. Dropping to my back I slide off the roof and land. The sounds of footsteps rushing towards me grows louder as I pull up from my crouch. A peacekeeper shoots around the corner and I release an arrow into his heart.

I take off running down the alleyway to another alley. I dart down it and toward a dark crumpled figure. The body lays at an odd and unnatural angle. As I creep closer to the body with the sounds of peacekeepers not far behind, I see that it's Ethan. Kneeling down I quickly check his pulse even though I know I won't find one. My fingers touch his warm skin, but he's gone.

I catch up his long bow, arrows, rifle, and empty his pockets as I get back to my feet. Darting and dashing through the backstreets, I put the peacekeepers somewhat behind me. It's everything I can do to not pant, if I don't get further ahead then nothing will matter at all. I feel the hard ground beneath my feet as I pump my arms to go faster and faster. I can hear the shouts of them moving forward just as I reach the corner and run out on to the main street.

I'm perfectly visible to them, and they are perfectly visible to me—the front most of them only twenty-five yards away. I raise the long bow as they raise their guns. I'm just a little swifter, my arrow sinking into one of the men's throats as his gun goes off into the ground. My second arrow hits a man in the shoulder as he turns. His gun comes up as my arrow pierces his skin, and I see the flash of the muzzle enveloped by an explosion radiating from beside him.

My fingers dig into the earth, my ears are ringing as I search for my bow. I feel a sharp sting in my shoulder as I fight to my knees. I notch an arrow and try to focus on what's behind me. The peacekeepers are dead—mangled and scattered. I pull myself unsteadily to my feet wiping at the blood splattered all around me, it still falls lightly like a rain—pink mist. That's what we call it when an explosion happens and particles of what once was human pours down like rain.

It takes a few minutes, and several more explosions going off before I reach the barrier. I'm greeted with the news that another girl—Andrea had been killed by a Peacekeeper. Cristoff and Meryl weren't back from planting the explosions, but it wasn't time to worry about them yet.

Sitting down, I feel fingers touching my arm. Careful hands pry into my skin, making me grimace with pain. I turn to see Amelia kneeling there beside me, her fingers pulling out a piece of shrapnel of the worst kind—bone, foreign bone.

Luckily, it's not too deep and the gunshot that I received is superficial—imbedded in the flesh above my shoulder and close to my neck. A few more inches and I'd have joined Ethan and Andrea.

…

All night long, we've had firefights. I'm being forced to take it relatively easy though. If I try to fire my gun or exert too much physically, the wound opens again. Finally, Amelia uses the measure that we learned in the battlefield—applying a layer of glue over the wound. Instead of just applying the glue, she stitches it up then puts the glue on to cover it.

For a long time, peace stretches out and the sun rises lazily in the sky to warm the chilled ground. Sprigs of grass are showing where boots haven't grounded them out. It'll be spring soon, and the flowers will be in bloom. It's a time of rejoicing usually for those of us who've made it through the winter, but some of us lay here knowing we'll never actually see spring.

The acrid smell of smoke rises into the air, and I know that somewhere behind us they're burning the bodies that we have. Their spirits are being released into the sky rather than buried beneath earth, imprisoned by the chains that had bound them to life. _The earth cannot hold you—may your memories warm the hearts of those you touched, and may your ashes blow free as you never were. May you find peace at last._

My mind finishes the last rites they are given, the only kind of peace that we can give them—peace that we will not be allowed to give other dead in a few days. These are the words that we may never get to say over Aelman's body.

Just barely seventeen, and he lies there hardly able to breathe. Amelia is doing everything within her power to keep him alive, but his condition changes from moment to moment. She tells us what she fears will happen and what is happening—to us it's all just scary words. Lung collapse, blood clots, infections…all kinds of issues that she only has limited resources to help.

Somewhere out in the woods, Jackson is running with Alexia. They could be dead already and we wouldn't know—we may never know. But even with the pain of not knowing about them—about knowing that Aelman is probably going to slowly and painfully slip away from us, there's a worse pain.

No one has come yet.

There's still time, there's still hope that District 11 will pull through and come out our aid. They could still be fighting…At least that's what we tell our men, because the truth is they aren't coming. If they were on their way, there would be fewer peacekeepers. There would be a more fractured group here fighting us while being divided with fighting the forces from eleven that would be coming from behind. But the peacekeepers pour in with more force and frequency making our odds even more insurmountable.

We tell our men that eleven could be coming at any moment, because we hope they'll change their mind. We hope that they'll notice the decrease in people guarding them and take advantage while we're being overrun. It's not too much to hope that they'll keep their promise, is it? It's not too much to hope that they'll see the benefit of a life without the Capitol.

…

By the time we realize they're assaulting us, it's almost too late to fall back for those of us who are just past the first barricade. The sky is just beginning to show signs that down will come within the hour, when my eyes open by some sixth sense. Last night, we moved back all of our forces except for a small reserve

It was evident that we were losing ground as the forces moved closer to us, but we had expected more time. We heard the sound of footsteps moments before they were on us. I barely had time to get to my heels before the first peacekeeper came over. The scream rises in my throat as I hit him hard with the butt of my rifle.

Our guard is overwhelmed quickly, the light having made it difficult to see them coming. They expected more of us, it's evident by the size of their force. They keep pushing us, and the butt of my rifle connects with another peacekeeper's face as I scream the order, "Fall back!"

Another wave of peacekeepers is just approaching the blockade, a straggler or two of our forces wounded or caught in the fray there unable to fall back. My heart catches, but it doesn't change what's about to happen—what we've planned for. Even though I know it's about to happen, I can't tear my eyes away as the explosives shatter the entire blockade. As the flash flares up, it sears my retinas forcing me to look away as I'm thrown back by the force of it.

Once again, I find my body impacting with the hard ground that still holds a chill. Warm liquid rains down on me, as the sounds of screams overwhelm the ringing in my ears. I push myself to my knees knowing that there's no time to waste—that was only the first explosion.

Someone grabs my arm, helping me to my feet, "Up we go!" We skirt a dismembered leg—not clad in white, one of ours—before coming on a few more wounded. He let's go of my arm to help, the white band around his arm signifying that he was helping instead of fighting. I stand there for a moment, looking behind me at the devastation the explosion had left in its wake. Peacekeepers were cautiously moving over, looking at the dead and wounded.

It makes me sick to know that some of the wounded back there are ours, ones that we can't help. They are the ones we had to choose to leave behind. I try to catch my bearings, try to guess how long has passed since the first explosion. Three minutes maybe…that gives us a minute more at the most.

The barrel of my rifle is slippery, and when I wipe it on my clothes it leaves thick red streaks on the soiled clothing. I fix my eyes on them, but they're proceeding so slowly and barely pushing through the wreckage. I back up slowly, throwing my arm out and shouting that it's time to fall back. I've waited as long as I can, at any moment the rest of the explosives could go off and we still have a few yards until safety.

We gather up the wounded and fall back over the next barricade thirty yards away. This barricade is just like the last, but with a large gap between houses. We'd spent the time knocking down and moving the closest house to make the gap wider. There's just enough time for us to move far enough back or get as low behind the barricade as we can before the earth rocks with the next series of explosions.

The rows of houses that once lined the stretch we held, along with the other natural barricades are blown away. We'd spent all of the first day lining the heavily housed area with explosives so that when it fell we would be able to take away any natural barricades for them when we were forced to abandon it. It depletes our precious store of dynamite but it gives us more safety and buys us more time.

The screams echo throughout the day as the wounded and dying from both side are cared for. We allow them to collect their wounded as long as they don't approach us too closely. The sun dries the blood onto my skin until I can peel off the layers with my fingernails. I chip away the flakes as I lay there under the eave of a house. I'm tired all the way down to my bones. My battered and bruised body aches more and more as the adrenaline fades away into exhaustion.

_My fingers hold the arrow steady as I see him walking across the grass plain. My practiced fingers let the arrow slip between my fingers, and my sight zooms along with the arrow until it pierces Horcraf's skin. But instead of hitting him—my intended target, it is me._

_The arrow pierces my lung, and chips away at the bones of my ribs as I fall to the ground. I feel like a balloon that's air is slowly being released as I lay there breathing in the homey smell of earth and grass. My fingers falter as they reach behind my back, despite the intense pain, unable to reach the arrow. The air leaves my lungs, but I can't force it back in no matter how hard I try. I'm drowning…suffocating…My fingers dig into the earth as my lungs struggle to do something, but nothing comes. I can't get the oxygen I need and I want to scream with the agony it causes. But you can't scream when you have no air._

My eyes fly open to see the setting sun. I can feel my own panting breath, and I try to even it out to not disturb the soldier sleeping beside me. He doesn't stir though. At first, I think he's just so tired that he didn't hear me—but then I see the bloodstained cloth on his chest and know that I won't be waking him.

Somehow, I don't find it disconcerting that I've been sleeping beside a dead man.


	26. Sweet Surrender

**FINALLY got my computer back. It is behaving better, but let's just wait and see. My hopes are to update Phoenix either later today or tomorrow, and to update this once more this week. I'm having to get all my notes back in place and find stuff. Plus, I've had to go to ER twice more. Thank you for sticking with me through the long wait. And I promise you, there's not too much more left. I think...there's this one and then five chapters?**

**Then I will be having a break from working on any other stories besides Phoenix and some oneshots, for a few weeks or until December (after NaNo) when I HOPE to start writing Districts of Rebellion, the prequel to this.**

_**He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in his stomach.**_

_**No more fantasies, he told himself.**_

_**Henceforth, when he thought about Martha, it would be only to think that she belonged elsewhere. He would shut down the daydreams. This was not Mount Sebastian, it was another world, where there were no pretty poems or midterm exams, a place where men died because of carelessness and gross stupidity. Kiowa was right. Boom-down, and you were dead, never partly dead.**_

_**Briefly, in the rain, Lieutenant Cross saw Martha's gray eyes gazing back at him.**_

_**He understood.**_

_**It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.**_

_**The Things They Carried, Tim O'Brien**_

My eyes linger on him, and I look closely to see if I know him. I knew him in passing, a year younger than me—unseasoned, but eager. I remember when he sat there. He offered me water, and I had drank greedily. I fell asleep to the sound of his voice speaking to his friend beside him.

I lean across the dead man, and touch my hand to the neck of the boy beside him who's maybe fourteen or fifteen. His eyes fly open, and he grabs at my wrist until his eyes focus. Then the move from my face to his friends, to the neat little bullet hole between his open eyes. The boy begins to shake, "He's—he's—"

I cut him off, "He's gone." My voice is softer. His fingers tighten into my wrist. "He wouldn't have felt a thing," I pull away from him gently and slide my hands over the dead man's eyes. The words escape my lips without having to think about it, and the boy who's trying so hard to not cry stumbles over the words behind me. "The earth cannot hold you—may your memories warm the hearts of those you touched, and may your ashes blow free as you never were. May you find peace at last."

I pull my aching self up, and search his pockets only to find a few bullets and a half eaten sandwich. I tuck the sandwich in my pocket as the boy makes a sick face, and give him the bullets and his friends gun. "Take his boots," I order.

He wipes at his face, and takes the boots gently off. "Put them on," I tell him now. Trying to get him to focus, "Yours are shot to hell. You need them." He nods his head as he follows my orders.

I look around the area, there are a few sleeping and some are watching. The ground is littered with bodies already picked over but not moved. It has come time that we can no longer afford to take care of our dead—we cannot exhaust ourselves or stay behind because the only place to go is to fall back and the men realize it.

It is etched in their bodies, the way they lean—the way they breathe, the way they sleep. We are waiting on no one. No one will come for us.

I feel like I should give some speech, tell them that we knew this could happen—that we suspected it. I should tell them that we will do what we should have done to begin with, fight until there are none of us left—until there is no more District 12 for them to enslave. But the words are known, they feel it. Our last talk will come later, closer to the end. For now, we still have time, strength, and resources to last a little longer-take a few more of them with us. It's not a lot, but it's what we have left.

…

An hour or so passes before I remember the half-eaten sandwich wrapped up in my pocket. I set aside the weapons and bullets I've found scattered amongst the dead, and give them to the boy to take to be redistributed. The odds and ends, the small mementos of things they carried in their pockets are taken to Amelia who has come to collect them. She carries a heavy basket, loaded with stones, carvings, wooden jewelry, beads, wedding bands, and even some photos. These are the things our men carried, until they fell. These are the things left to sum them up to those of us who riffle through their pockets unknowingly.

I look at a picture of a girl smiling in a dress on her wedding day, pulled close to the man who's pocket I took this picture from. But as my eyes float to her smiling face, I remember her_. I watched as her head lolled over a shoulder, her eyes wide and staring and her arms hanging at odd angles. I hear a gruff voice ask, "Who?"_

_The man who carries her, lays her down amongst the other dead gently, straightening her arms and closing her eyes before answering. "Andrea. She was out with the snipers, Peacekeeper got her with a lucky shot."_

I hand the picture to Amelia, and she recognizes the girl too. "There's no one left to give this to," she says quietly. She stares at them, their faces frozen with happy memories. Her voice breaks for a moment, "Don't you envy them though?"

I know what she means. If nothing else, they were completely each others for awhile. They stood up before their friends, they joined together in a simple ceremony almost older than time itself—a ceremony I'll never have. A ceremony that Amelia has experienced with someone other than whom she'd always planned to live the rest of her life with.

We're supposed to pity the dead, not envy them. "Yes," I say. "I do."

She nods and brushes at her eyes, and tucks the picture into her pocket. "I'll keep it, like all the others who have no one left to remember them. I can at least keep them safe."

Sounds echo from behind us, and I turn to see what's going on—shielding Amelia behind me. "Go Amelia," I tell her and she obeys—fleeing over the next few barricades back to her wounded, back to her baby.

I watch as the Peacekeeper steps out past the rubble with a white flag that blends in so well with his uniform. The men are crouched, ready to spring.

I walk toward him as he stands in the vast expanse of area in between the remnants of the blown up barricade, and the one we hide behind in safety. "I want to have a word with your leader," he shouts.

I step past the barricade, my leg stiff and feel bloody and dirty. My eyes focus on him. The pistol is loose in my hand, and all I have to do is drop my shoulder with one practiced move to allow my rifle to fall into my hand and shoot.

I don't stop walking until I'm six feet in front of him, and I line myself up so that I'm directly in front of him—a harder shot to make. "You're looking at her," I say.

"You should put down your weapons, we want to talk with you about ceasefire," his voice is calm and soothing. Trying to make me see reason in his words in the fading light of day.

"No, I'll keep them," I watch him swallow hard.

"Let me tell you the terms," he says. He takes out an envelope and begins to carefully open it. I know what's in there, what's always in there—lies. Promises that will be made then broken. They'll assure us safety, no more punishment…and then they will deliver it anyways.

I feel the heat rise in me, coursing through each small fabric of my being. "No," I say. He stops unfolding the paper and creases his brow, "We do not accept your terms."

"You haven't heard them," he admonishes me like a child. "Just listen, they're fair."

"We do not accept them," he stares at me confused, like I've lost my mind. "These are our terms." My voice rises, so that now everyone can hear me. "You will leave our District. You will leave your weapons and your food, and you will be allowed to leave unarmed. Anyone who remains behind of you will be executed. You will never come back here again. You will leave me and my people alone. These are our conditions."

He shakes his head, "That's insane. I can't give you that, no one will give you that. You're outnumbered. You're dying, we can—we will obliterate you." His face turns red and his hands clench, "Take what your given girl and be glad of the terms." He lifts the paper again to read.

I stop him, "Your second option is to keep on with this fight. We will not surrender. You will have to kill us like you did Thirteen," I feel a lump in my throat when I remember the people I had known from there. "We will not surrender, we will fight and take as many of you with us as we can. So send them all, send the whole damn Capitol! Send everyone who can fight to come at us. Because we will not surrender to you, we do not accept your terms. We would rather die."

His face is white, and I feel sorry for him for a moment because my decision has been made. Really, it was probably made the moment I stepped over that barricade. "Is that the message you want me to send?" His voice carries across the stillness.

"No," I say flatly in the silence. My voice rings out. "No," I say it softer as we face each other. "I don't want you to send anything."

He looks at me in confusion, "I don't understand. What do you want me to tell them? You have to give them an answer."

"I am giving them an answer, and you will be delivering the message." I step closer to him. "We will not surrender. We will kill anyone of you that does not leave our District right NOW." I say it sharply, "You have been warned. You have not heeded the warning." I see something dawning on his face as I raise my gun to his forehead.

"You're the message," and I pull the trigger.


	27. Almost Time

**Today is like what...Monday? I'm in Disney-our last day here...I think LOL. Next update should be later this week. Phoenix will be updated after I get home. So tomorrow or the next day hopefully.**

**Sorry for the long waits! Should be back on track after this!**

_**Because I do believe in killing the messenger. You know why? Because it sends a message.**_

_**Damon Salvatore of the Vampire Diaries**_

I pull the slack on the trigger, my words punctuated by the loud report from the gun. The blowback hits me in the face. I can taste it and feel it all over me—his blood, his humanity (whatever he had), and all the things that made him a living human breathing moments before.

His body starts to crumple to the ground, but everything is moving fast now. Faster even than my thoughts. I take to my heels and run back toward our barricade. I felt the hot line piercing my side, and I stumble as I'm pushed forward with the heat of explosion.

My face stings, and my pistol is inches from my hand. The gravel is embedded in my face, the long bloody strips making me sticky as I reach up to touch them. I'm pulled to my feet by the boy from earlier, he's shaking but he has my gun in hand and he's firing. My eyes are slightly blurred, but even I can see—that he's not a boy anymore. This is war—there are no more boys, there are no more children. No one is innocent anymore of the sights and sounds of it.

He pulls me to my feet and we stumble past the barricades as more explosions go off. I can hear the yelling, the smelling of burning flesh clings in my nostrils as I fall to the ground in safety.

Finally, I have the chance to look back and see what's happened.

All around me is chaos. Cristoff had anticipated this maybe, anticipated what was going to come or what I would do because it's the only thing that makes sense. Somehow, he had rigged the skeleton of the old barricades that the Peacekeepers were hiding behind to blow.

They had knelt there in what they thought was safety, never once suspecting that inches from their face was dynamite or that when they thought they were safest he would strike. He had anticipated everything—all the way down to me.

I lay there panting for breath as someone comes to check on me, I hear the concern in my ringing ears but I brush them away. Against advice, I struggle to my feet, clutching at my bloody side. I stare at it with hazy eyes to see that it's just a flesh wound—it can wait.

All around me is fire, and shooting and screaming.

The world is ending.

I stand there clutching my side as one of the men comes to me, someone who I'm more familiar with—Adam. I remember him from back in the days of raiding, back when he was younger and more carefree—back when he didn't have that huge gash across his mouth. His voice is gruff, "What do you need, Captain?"

I look up into his eyes, "I need a few moments to tend myself." I realize dimly that the pistol is back in my belt.

He looks around for a moment, before taking me by the arm and leading me a few feet off. It feels good to be led by someone else for a moment. He points a few yards away, "You can tend yourself there Captain. I'll watch the door."

I nod my head to him in thanks, and disappear inside.

The room is small. The size of a small bedroom or nursery—I can reach out my hands and touch both sides of the room. For a moment, I stand there and I try to process. I see him there again in front of me. His eyes were brown, his hair was sandy—he was about three years older than me. He had a dimple in his chin, and a mole on his left ear. His smile reminded me of Alaric's…

I can see the small hole open up between his eyes, revealing to me the interior of what was once living. His face doesn't move anymore or react. I have killed him under a flag of truce. I am no better than them.

But what choice did I have?

What choice did I have to prove to them that I was serious?

Realistically, the moment I said no the truce was over. He could fire on me—I could fire on him, but the way I did it…My stomach knots and twists inside of me. I had to prove my point. I had to show that I meant what I said. We would not be walked over. We would die rather than be slaves again. I had to show them that…I had to.

And however long I have left, I will have to live with that. I will have to live with his face before my eyes and I know he will be there to remind me that I killed him when he had no weapon raised on me. Somewhere, someone will be crying for him…he will be missed. Somewhere, someone will be told of how he dies and they'll not understand my reasonings—I can barely understand them myself.

I did what had to be done. I made the hard decision, and—

I retch hard. My nearly empty stomach aches and constricts on itself as I wind up gripping my knees hard to keep from losing my balance. The crackers from yesterday, the half-eaten dead man's sandwich spilling from my mouth onto the floor quickly—and all too soon I'm empty of food to get rid of, even the water I've drank comes up. It burns my esophagus and spills out my nose, but I'm not empty of the pain of the feelings of horror at myself.

I keep retching until my breath is gone and I'm on my knees over the pile of sick. Finally, I push myself over and onto my back when even the dry heaves have ceased. I lay there staring at the ceiling, the burn of acid in my throat and the sting of tears in my eyes, and from a thousand points in the ceiling his brown eyes look back at me.

But I don't have time to lay here and hate myself. I don't' have time to think about the cost to my soul—people are out there waiting on me, depending on me. How long have I been gone? I don't have time for me—not now.

With shaky hands, I push myself to my knees and then slowly to my feet. My side is a bloody mess, but it's a pain I can manage much easier than the ache in my soul. I straighten my hair, not even concerning myself that I'm smearing blood through it. It's greasy and slick with blood and dirty already. It could have been six lifetimes since I washed it.

I pull it back again and then let my fingers dig into my face until I've peeled out the largest piece of gravel. I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I pull my face back into its mask—hiding the pain and misery, the fear and uncertainty I'm feeling. Now is not a time to remember I'm human or anything other than someone in charge of everyone's life.

I walk out the door, and Adam stands there a few feet away. He raises his eyes at me, "Anything else Captain? I can give you more time, or some supplies…" He trails off.

"Food," I say and I realize my throat is croaky from all the coughing. I'm sure he probably heard, and I want to thank him for watching out for me—for letting me have my moment of weakness. "Food for myself, for everyone, is there enough?"

He opens his canteen and hands it to me, "You should have some water." He considers a moment, "They're doling out some meager supplies. I'll get you something," he turns on his heel to head off.

My fingers reach out and touch his arm before pulling back away, "Thank you."

He nods his head curtly and inclines his head, "Sometimes, even I forget you're still human."

I grimace at him, "Barely." The word is just a soft breath. "Barely."

The fourth day dawns with my hand linked with Cristoff's back in my house in Victor's Village. Aelman is doing significantly worse than before. Infection is setting in, and Amelia is worried that he won't respond to the herbs they have. She forces me to have my side cleaned while she talks to us in whispers about his condition.

She cleans out the long furrow along my hip bone, and I bite back screams as she stitches the skin closed. She explains to us what will happen if Aelman doesn't respond to the herbs, she tells us how the fever will go higher and his body will stop functioning. Christian and Eric have their heads in their hands, but Cristoff listens intently with his face set in stone. He's being strong for them—now that their father is gone.

Their father won't have to see Aelman suffer anymore, he won't have to watch as his son fades away—the son most like their mom. It's a lot to lose in so little time, mere hours since we saw his body. Only minutes since we let him burn with the rest of the pyre rather than on his own as he should have been. His body isn't even ash yet—and his sons are carrying on and dying.

Cristoff takes a deep breath, "Thank you, Amelia. I know you're doing everything."

Her lips tremble, "I wish I could do more…" She grips his hand.

"You're doing everything," he says it with such assurance. "You should rest though, you need to rest." She wants to argue, but he insists. "How long since has it been since you've seen your son?"

She doesn't object anymore.

It's quiet for now. All day long, the funeral pyres have burned. It's almost morning when we're forced to fall back again. We're forced to push back not one barricade but two. We leave more men behind than we bring with us.

At the end, you'd expect it to be quieter or that there'd be lots of crying…but everyone knows now that no one is coming; they just don't say the words. But the only words you hear are of comfort, of prayer, of hymns of faith being sung. The mood is calm—accepting.

When I pass them by, they reach out and touch me as if it to let me know that they agree with what I've done. Each touch reminds me that they're thanking me for killing them. And everywhere I look there are brown eyes.

The food starts to run down, and the rations are thinner. Each house is crammed full of wounded until bursting. Aelman's started to scream in his sleep—but he's not the only one. There is not enough pain medicine or herbs or…anything to keep them quiet. All hours of the day and into the night, you can hear them scream until it fills your head like a mantra. You tell yourself it's not real—that it'll end but it never does. It goes on and on and on until it reverberates in your skull and you can't think of a time before the screaming.

We fall back more—to the last square, to Victor's Village, where we have the most protection. For a while things are peaceful, though each house swelters with the pack of bodies inside. Nothing happens, nothing at all…

Everything is quiet for the sixth and seventh day like right before the storm.

The night descends like a cloak as I sit on the cramped floor of my hallway listening to Aelman's death rattle. My hand clings to Cristoff and the words between us remain unsaid for a little while longer.

It's not much longer till we say our final goodbyes, until our eyes will be closed and the voices of the dying finally silent or at least, our ears deaf. It presses closer, and I'm not afraid.

It's almost time.


	28. It is Life, It is Death

Sometimes you work on something so long that it physically hurts when it's about to end. This story has been so much a part of me, an expression of some of the griefs I've felt, a culmination of things I've read that were so vivid they felt real, and a thousand other things. This story...it was never meant to be a happy one-it was meant to be real with all of the connotations of that.

I wanted to create this flawed and tragic girl who is forced to lead her people, a predecessor of Katniss. Not related in any way. But a girl who was found in the same situation basically, but grew up in war instead of the fragile peace that Katniss had. So don't blame Emera for her hardness, for her sometimes inhumanity-I wanted to show her for what she truly is. She is flawed, she is real.

She is a child of war and suffering. Terrible things happen in war, and they leave a permanent scar on anyone who's alive during that time.

It's not long now.

_Swan dive down eleven stories high_

_Hold your breath until you see the light_  
><em>You can sink to the bottom of the sea<em>  
><em>Just don't go without me<em>

_Go get lost where no one can be found_  
><em>Drink so long and deep until you drown<em>  
><em>Say your goodbyes, but darlin' if you please, <em>  
><em>Don't go without me.<em>

_C'est la vie, c'est la mort._  
><em>(It is life, it is death.)<em>  
><em>You and me, <em>  
><em>Forevermore.<em>

_Let's walk down the road that has no end._  
><em>Steal away where only angels tread.<em>  
><em>Heaven or hell or somewhere in between<em>  
><em>Cross your heart to take me when you leave.<em>  
><em>Don't go... Please don't go. Don't go without me.<em>

_C'est la Mort, The Civil Wars_

The cool air drifts in the open windows as we sit there in the hallway. Cristoff rubs his thumb in circles on the back of my hand while he leans against the wall with his eyes closed. I take the opportunity to look at him.

He's filthy, just like everyone. There's not enough water easily acquired to bath. The stale smell of sweat and body odor fills the house—but worse is the smell of festering wounds. But underneath all that grime, dirt, and blood is my Cristoff with his pale grey eyes and dark hair. His strong jaw his set firmly, relaying how tense he really is.

I look over each feature of his face, because I can feel it coming. It's soon—the end. I felt it pressing on me heavy, but instead of constricting my breathing it seems to take my breath away. My chest heaves for a few moments before I close my eyes and breath deeply, and calmly.

I search inside of myself to know how I'm feeling. Afraid? Angry? Sad? Maybe before, but not now. There's a kind of finality to this feeling—this almost peace that has dropped over us like the night has tucked us in like a blanket before we are tucked into our coffins.

Finally, the need for words has come.

"It's over isn't it?" He doesn't answer me. Do we really need to talk about it? This is it and we both know it. I lean back against the wall, and all I can feel is the finality. "You know what's going to happen." It's more a statement than a question.

"We're going to get overrun probably tomorrow, maybe the next day or the next. But it'll happen," he pauses. "I know what you're thinking." He opens his eyes and turns toward me.

"It's better if I don't live," I whisper it. I know people will think I'm a coward for it, but it's the best choice. "If…I do this, then they have no reason to hurt you—the ones I love for my sake. They can't torture me by doing it to you…Even if they kill…it'll be easier, less painful."

He grips my hand, "It's better if I don't live. If you die, there's no reason for me stay behind."

"You could give them hope," I argue and almost beg. The thought of a world without him is so dreary, so empty. "You could lead them in a few years. You can guide them with your light."

"There is no light if you aren't here. You give me the reason to try to be something. Where you go, I'm going with you." His eyes stare deep into mine, and he leans forward to kiss me lightly.

I want to change his mind, but I know that he won't. I don't want to argue with him so I say nothing and kiss him back. My hands weave up into his matted and bloody hair as my lips taste sweat and dirt on his lips. This could be the last time we kiss…

And it's selfish, but I'm glad he's going to die with me. I hope that I'm right and there's some place beyond where we can still love each other, because this love can't just stop with death. I've been through hell, so heaven must be real.

I pull away from him breathless and wipe the tears from my eyes as I lean my forehead against his. "When?" I ask him softly.

"When we hear them coming," he whispers.

"Do you have enough bullets?" The words are heavy and pained on my lips.

"Two, I need four," he pauses.

I stop him before he goes on. He's taking them with us, his brothers before they can get more hurt than they are. Aelman is dying, Christian will probably lose his leg at the least, and Eric's vision is gone—unknown if it will return. "I understand," I say it back. I do. Maybe it's selfish, but they're all injured and maybe it's not right—but would it be right to leave them behind. And Aelman at least deserves this respite, he deserves to stop hurting. "I can do it for you," I offer him knowing he won't accept.

"It's my burden," he says heavily sounding so very old.

I squeeze his hand and then part from him to open my pistol. I open the cylinder, and count my bullets—three. I give him the two with one left for myself. I have to get it right the first time.

He puts the bullets in and we both close the guns as we wait.

The night sounds continue. Crickets chirp, and hoot of owls are heard in the silence. The wind cools us, makes us feel more alive—or maybe that's the dying. I lean my head against his shoulder thinking back to nights we spent like this so long ago before there was a Hunger Games.

Yet those peaceful nights were during a war, between battles and skirmishes. It seems we are not fated to love in a time of peace or prosperity. My chest tightens when I think of how little time we've had together—not even three years yet.

Time is running out.

I think of the black haired, grey eyed children we dreamed of that will never be. I think of all the things I wanted to teach them—to be kind, to be strong, how to fight, how to sew, and how to love wholeheartedly. All of this has been taken from me and the only thing I can do is let them go.

One by one, I say goodbye to each dream I held—marriage, children, old age, peace, and a thousand other things. There's no use in fighting it—it's time to accept it. I feel the tears leak from the corners of my eyes as one by one they drift away like Elaine on her funeral barge.

I am empty. There is no future I dare hope except for a quick death for the ones I love.

We lay there in each other's arms, my tears still streaming silently down my face. Occassionally, a small drop drips onto my arm and I know Cristoff is crying. We do not comfort each other with lies—they're pointless. But eventually, Cristoff brings us all comfort.

His voice is deep, but wavering—pained because it will never be true for us.

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow  
>A bed of grass, a soft green pillow<br>Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes  
>And when you awake, the sun will rise.<em>

My flawed voice joins his:

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
>Here the daisies guard you from harm<br>Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
>Here is the place where I love you.<em>

Other voices join and mingle, heavy with sorrow and longing. Some voices are drowning in tears. I see a mother rocking her child and her lips moving to the song, her eyes cast up in prayer.

_Deep in the meadow, hidden far away  
>A cloak of leaves, A moonbeam ray, Forget your woes and let your troubles lay<br>And when again it's morning, they'll wash away._

_Here it's safe, here it's warm  
>Here the daisies guard you from every harm<br>Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true  
>Here is the place where I love you.<em>

The song ends and for a moment all you can hear is the muffled sobbing or whispered prayers or curses. But then another sound starts, and it registers quickly—the sound of running, the sound of shouts.

They're rushing us.

Cristoff jumps up, just as I do. People have begun to scatter in the chaos. Cristoff rushes into the room where his injured brothers are. I hold my breath and then the first shot goes off. My body jerks as the next shot goes off, and then the next. But I have no time to mourn them because the sounds of the enemy are growing louder.

They're near the door and I'm waiting for Cristoff, so that we can do this together. He's pushing through bodies, struggling to get through when they grab him. He struggles fiercely, biting and clawing. He fires the weapon wildly, it shocks them enough he can surge forward around the corner so that I can see his face one last time.

"DO IT!" He shouts it.

It's his last wish, and I can't help him now.

The Peacekeepers rush into the room, but it's too late.

I put the gun in my mouth and stare the nearest one down as I pull the trigger.

But nothing happens.


	29. Unheard

**Likely, you'll find several errors here. But honestly, I wrote it and I simply cannot read it again-it has made me physically sick. I had someone else read it...and they got sick too. So...even though it's not extremely graphic, I'm putting a big disclaimer here. Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT read if you have a weak stomach, can't tolerate torture, or want there to be a happy ending. There isn't one. I told you that from the beginning.**

**There are two more chapters left, and that's it-it's over. The last one has been written for months. The next one will be written and uploaded on probably Saturday, maybe Sunday. Two chapters, and I'll have a few things to say in the last chapter. But all the loose ends will be tied up.**

**So I leave you with this...horror chapter. Sorry! But this is war, and bad things happen.**

_Finch: But when I was there it was strange. I suddenly had this feeling that everything was connected. It's like I could see the whole thing, one long chain of events that stretched all the way back before Larkhill. I felt like I could see everything that happened, and everything that is going to happen. It was like a perfect pattern, laid out in front of me. And I realised we're all part of it, and all trapped by it. _  
><em> <strong>Dominic<strong>: So do you know what's gonna happen? _  
><em> <strong>Finch<strong>: No, it was a feeling. But I can guess. With so much chaos, someone will do something stupid. And when they do, things will turn nasty. And then Sutler will be forced to do the only thing he knows how to do. At which point, all V needs to do is keep his word. And then... _

_-V for Vendetta_

I pull the trigger again, but nothing happens. The harsh voice screams at me, "Drop your weapon!"

For a moment, I want to beat him with the gun—rush him to make him kill me. But things aren't neat like they were before. Not a neat clean death, not even a hope of taking them with me. I am out of options.

I drop my gun to the floor as Cristoff falls to his knees from a ringing blow to the back of his head. His head lulls forward as they push me to my knees and chain my wrists. The restraints are so tight they chaff. But my decision is made, I will see this out with them.

The pull me to my feet, and I struggle a bit on my stiff leg for a moment. My wound in my side breaks open and I can feel the blood pouring out and down. They jerk me roughly around through the house, but I do not say a word. I keep my silence even as I hear Cristoff's boots dragging on the ground. Is he dead? Is he alive? Does it really matter anymore?

I hold my head up as they lead me into the square. The sounds of scattered firing resound in the area. There could only be a few hold out's now. The streets are littered with bodies…Of the twenty-five thousand we began with, how many are left? And how many will be left after they punish us for our sin of rebelling?

They force me to my knees in the square. I see the muzzle an inch in front of my face. All sound stops as I stare up at him. His eyes are brown, livid—coursing with some other emotion that I don't recognize. His hand is shaking, struggling to keep it steady. His teeth are clenched and bared open like some feral beast and all I can do is look at him.

I am not afraid, I realize. My pulse beats calmly, my eyes even feel tired. My body aches, and the longing for it just to end is there. When I look up at him, I don't hate him—not anymore. He's just a tool, just being used as I was once. So try as I might, I can't hate the man who will take my life.

"You killed Marks! You deserve to die! You shot him! He has a baby he'll never meet!" His voice quivers with anger and frustration. "I'm supposed to take you to _him_. Let him punish you, but I think I should have that right. I think I deserve to kill you for killing my best friend. I'll make an example of you," he spits in my face but I don't flinch away.

His hand shakes more as I am left kneeling there. The messenger I killed had a child coming, a child who will never know it's father. The man I killed at friends, friends who loved him enough to defy orders. Does it matter that I killed him because I had to make my point in this war? Does that matter at all my reasons for it or does the action of it cancel out any good intention?

Slowly, I lean my head forehead pressing the icy barrel in between my eyes. I don't look away from him, I don't flinch. I've made my choices, I've committed my sins and if now is the time to pay for them—then it is time. I have lived my life on my own terms, and now it is time to die.

But he doesn't pull the trigger. His hands shake more and more as I look at him. "How could you kill him like this? What kind of monster are you?" His voice breaks, "I know what you did to him," his voice is almost a growl. "But I can't…I can't even kill you like this." He pulls the gun away from my head and turn around, coming face to face with Head Peacekeeper Ambrose.

For a moment, our eyes meet and I lift my head to look at him with cool eyes. He stares back down at me, his teeth glinting in a malicious smile. "Well, Emera Dayton…I knew one day it would come to this."

He stares at me expecting me to say some words, but I keep them to myself. I look at him impassively. I watch the anger flare in his face, "So Emera tell me where the rest of your supplies are?"

Again, I say nothing.

Roughly, he grabs the young boy whose friend died only days ago and wrenches him out and forces him to the ground in front of me. His eyes are wide, scared as Peacekeeper Ambrose asks again, "Where are the rest of your weapons?" I watch as he presses the gun to the back of the boys head.

I can't save him. The moment he was chosen, he was dead. My eyes leave Ambrose's face and find the boy's face. I try to recall his name, to say something to him, to squelch the fear in his eyes as he looks at me. He looks at me as if I could still save him.

My voice is heavy but my eyes cling to the boy's. "You don't want the truth. You'd call it a lie. If I lie to you, and you don't find them—you'll still do it. There is no point in discussion. No point in surrender. No point in negotiations. We are all that is left. Nothing but what you see remains." I pause for breath, "And it won't change what you will do to us. It only gives you reasons you can rely to you superiors to back-up your actions."

Ambrose laughs, "Smart girl, aren't you?"

My voice doesn't change tone. "Go ahead and kill him then. Bring more before me as if I have some power over their life and death, we both know I don't. Make an example of me. Kill me. There is nothing more to tell. I'm ready to die now."

Ambrose pulls the trigger, and I watch the boy fall like a child off of a swing. It's almost graceful. I could almost pretend he'd get up again, if I didn't taste the bits of brain in my mouth. I hold on to something inside of me that threatens to break lose, because I know this is only the beginning.

"Oh, Emera…we have much better plans in store for you than death."

He jerks me to my feet and hits me hard in my bloodied side. Lights pop behind my eyelids and for a moment everything threatens to go black. "I'll give you a chance Emera to save yourself a little pain. What did you do with Jackson?" He whips me around to him until I'm face to face, almost nose to nose with him.

I can smell his lurid breath as I take in his features through watery eyes. I give a twisted smile and remain silent.

He pushes me out into the middle of a circle, and before I know it—I see what's happening. My arms are still bound, but he has not one, not two, but three men coming out to fight me. The best I can do is run, they think, or hide. I can block their blows or something like that, but I can't fight—but I can. Everything that is in me, rails against laying there taking the beating till I die when there is a chance I can take one of them with me.

The first man advances, thinking that I'm incapable of anything. I kick my leg out hard and hit him in the groin just as the second man grabs me from behind. I don't weigh much, but when I force myself to go limp it shocks him and pulls him down some. Heavily, I stomp into his boot until he screams. I turn to look for the next man, just as something hard hits me.

My neck swivels unnaturally. Lights explode and pain and blood blossom everywhere. The resounding crack that fills my head makes me know that my jaw is broken as I hit the floor. I can feel the swelling starting and the pain is torture, but I know I have to get up. Remaining on the ground will only add more unneeded pain and no chance at hurting them back.

But I'm too slow. By the time, I can get myself steady enough to get to my knees, I get a boot to the face. I feel another crack, and my eye starts to swell shut as I fall back to the ground. Blood is pouring out of my mouth, mingling with the dirt and making murky looking colour to my hazy eyes.

I go to move to get up, but this time another heavy boot catches me in my ribs. I inhale sharply, for a moment thinking I'll be unable to get any breath back in my body. But finally, it comes in a rush just as the next boot finds me. They hit me harder and harder until I can feel the bruises blossoming instantly. My swelling eyes show the pretty colours spreading out, and through the pain I'm mesmerized by them unable to move.

I don't struggle, or scream. I don't do anything save wincing or biting back pain. I'm so quiet that they grab me by my hair and flip me over to face the sky. It's clear without a cloud in the sky, the warm sun beginning to warm the world as it gets higher. I can't help but notice how beautiful it is through my swelling eyes, kind of like the light at an end of a tunnel.

The notion strikes me as odd, and I want to laugh but there's too much pain.

I hear them whisper about me, look down at me as I stare at the heavens. They kick me again, but I absorb it. They can kill me, they can starve me, they can torture and destroy me—but there's one thing I know for sure. What happened here today—these past few days, someone will remember. I can almost see it—all the things that happened before, leading up to something in the future that is so close I can almost taste it. I can see the puzzle pieces fitting altogether and I know that what I've done is not in vain.

We will die. Maybe all of us, but probably not. There will be a few to remember. For years, this story will smolder in broken hearts until one day something will cause the idea to ignite. We can be destroyed—we fragile, weak humans—but the idea, the want of our freedom is overpowering and it will never be eradicated.

One day, someone else will lead them to victory and my people will be free. What I have done here is not in vain. Someone will remember, and someone will get it right one day—that's what I hold on to.

Peacekeeper Ambrose squats down over me and he tilts my head so that I'm looking at him. All my anger rushes to the surface and I spit a satisfying wad of blood and tooth in his face.

He hits me hard on my broken jaw, but I know I'll have the last word. My lips can barely part, but I mumble it anyways. "You'll never find Jackson. He'll die of starvation or dehydration before I tell you where I put him. All trussed up like the traitor he is, waiting for you to come rescue him. Only," well he's not really there and not really a traitor. But he doesn't know that, let him think that I've tortured Jackson—that he's some great Peacekeeper hero. "Only, you'll never find him and he'll waste away waiting on you—waiting on my mercy. But you and I, Ambrose…we have no mercy left."

His eyes burn like coals into me, "You will suffer for this. You will tell me or—"

"Or what?" I laugh through one side of my mouth, "Or you'll torture me? You'll beat me? You'll kill me? You'll bring countless people in front of me to threaten me to tell you? You'll destroy everything I love? Go ahead, Ambrose. You have nothing on me anymore because we both know you're going to do all of that anyways. You can't scare me, because there is no salvation for me. There is no hope or redemption or pardons or whatever the hell you want to call it. So do your worst. I'm ready."

And he does.

The days are a living hell and the nights are torment almost worse. During the day, they punch and kick me till I pass out or slap me around some. At night, they drug me into oblivion until the pain fades away and every horrible image of the war sticks in my mind and I'm stuck there until they stop the medicine. I can't even scream—I can't wake up, I can't escape it. I'm trapped in it, and it's worse than anything I've ever felt before.

When I thought things could get no more worse, they surprised me again. They taunted me with what would be happening soon, and my heart would beat loudly despite my trying to stop it from doing so.

They dragged me to the square and stripped me of my shirt and beat me until I passed out. Each lash bearing into my skin, stripping pieces of me away until one of the lashes hit bone.

And still it was not enough. I heard of the hangings, the shootings that were happening as punishment. People had to be punished even though our numbers had dwindled so much. Each day I wondered when it would be my turn, or if they'd tell me when it was Cristoff's turn? Or was he already gone?

But no, I could still feel that he was alive…for now, at least.

I came down of the drugs again, a week or maybe two after the surrender. My body bruised and infected—suffering. They started to treat the wounds, and I fought against them. Treating the wounds meant living longer, it meant healing me to hurt me again. But try as I might, I could not escape them. Within a day or two, the feverish delusions that I had thought were going to welcome me into death faded away to clarity.

…

I find myself on the table they've used to treat me, but this time is different than before. I fight them hard as they strap me to the table. It's useless though and yet, I don't stop struggling or trying to break the lashes. Eventually, they pin down my head and pry open my mouth.

I feel a liquid burning in my veins and I think that I'll be out again soon, but instead I'm conscious and in pain, but unable to move—breathing shallowly. I watch as they come to me with thief faces hidden behind masks.

I see the tools in their hands that will now be turned to weapons. For so long, I have kept my tongue about where Jackson is—to keep him safe, to make them think he and Alexia are dead—and now, they are taking it from me.

They are taking my tongue, I realize as the slice starts in. I can feel the howl of pain that wants to escape me, the animalistic urge to fight and scream, because it is so unbearable. But I can't, nothing can get me past the drugs. I can't fight it, I can't do anything but lay there unable to move—unable to find release even in a scream.

It feels like hours as the sweat pours out of my body as they remove the bloody, useless thing from my mouth. They have taken the part of my body that will not marr the visible, but forever keep me silent.

Sometime, mercifully, I pass out.

…

Ambrose tells me as I lay there, writhing in pain—free from painkillers when I want them most—that I am the first of my kind, a new breed of people. These people are traitors to the Capitol, punished for their actions or their words, their tongues taken to keep them silent. " Avox," he sneers. "It means, 'without a voice'. Fitting isn't it?"

But I keep my silence as always, no answering glares, no words even if I had them. Somehow, I still have the last word and he knows it.

…

They drag me through the halls, since I fail to cooperate in any way with them anymore. They take me across a clearing, and I see some people milling around—forced to rebuild, forced to go on as if this was before the Rebellion. Their eyes look at me and look away, they cannot help me now and I would not ask it of them.

The guards drag me in—five of them—and chain me to a wall. As they leave, I realize, I'm not alone. Slumped against the far wall is Cristoff, his chest rising and falling with his breath.

Ambrose stands in the doorway, "Enjoy him will it lasts Emera," he says.

"Captain Dayton to you," Cristoff's voice hoarsely reputes and my heart soars at the sound of it.

"He's to be hung for his crimes tomorrow—for murdering his three brothers. We've reserved you a seat—front row." Turning on his heel, he leaves me alone for the last time with the only man I've ever loved.


	30. I'll Wait For You

_****_**One more after this. You'll understand a lot of lose ends in this and the next chapter. Enjoy!**

_**And that, my friends is how a revolution dies. **_

_**Haymitch Abernathy, p. 72, Mockingjay**_

The room settles into darkness, and my broken, battered body rushes against my chains to reach him. I try to cry his name, but all that comes out is a weird strangled cry. And then his hands are touching my face, caressing my skin.

"Shh…It's okay," I can see the tears in his eyes. "Don't talk. Don't hurt yourself." He knows…."They made me watch," he grimaces before I can even try to figure out how to ask how he knows. The tears drip down my face, I didn't want him to see my pain—didn't want it to hurt him too.

The chains pull me roughly, but I get as close to him as I can. If I'm careful, I can get my head on his shoulder. His hands struggle against the chains until he can stroke my dirty hair. His fingers glide through, untangling knots and gunk. His lips press to my forehead.

I close my eyes, imagining all the things I want to say to him, but will never be able to. Each thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear is one more leading to his death—one more to take him away... It's like a countdown to our parting. I feel the choking sob beginning in my throat, my chest aching as I let out the horrid sounds that now mean I'm crying.

Cristoff holds me tighter. He doesn't tell me to stop crying, or tell me it'll be okay. He holds on to me, and I can feel his hands trembling. I know he's scared, I'm terrified. I wonder if it'll hurt that bad for him—I pray that if there's any pain that it'll be mine, not his. I don't want him to suffer anymore. I wish I could go with him.

His lips brush my ear gently, "We'll be together again." I can hear the tears, his voice catches and chokes. "You'll be okay without me."

I shake my head furiously against his chest. I will never be okay without him, he knows that. Why would he say that?

"Please, be okay without me?" He begs me. "Just for awhile, until it's time to come back to me." He pauses, "You know you have to stay. You have to make sure they remember that—you have to make sure they remember this happened—that they'll try again."

I know he's right, but I hate it. I have to stay behind even if I hate it. He will wait for me, he will be there when I come.

"I'll wait for you," he promises again. "Forever, if I have to."

I look up into his face and stare into his eyes. I take his hand and use my finger to write in his palm "_I'll come as soon as I can."_

He cups me back to him and we lay against each other recounting memories. The first time he kissed me beneath the stars, the first time he told me he loved me, the first time we made love. There were other memories—swimming in the lake, hunting in the forest, the long dreary days in the mines that weren't so dreary because of his presence. I remember each song he made.

I grip his hand and write, _Sing to me._

"What?" He whispers.

_Something true._

He pauses for a long moment, then he speaks slowly. "They arrested me for murder. Not for the Peacekeepers, but for my brothers." He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut and I comfort him as he goes on. "That's my crime, they can't even say that it's because of a Rebellion. And that's what I'm being punished for—it's the only thing that I'm really guilty of, even if it was for the best."

He breathes deeply, struggling to say more but instead his voice falters again. He clears his throat and starts off the low, haunting refrain and I commit his voice, these words to memory:

_Are you, Are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where they strung up a man they say murdered three  
>Strange things did happen here<br>No stranger would it be  
>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree<em>

The rebellion that they will pretend won't exist—the lives that were lost instead in some epidemic instead of refusing to live as slaves. We lost almost two-thirds of our population in this silent refusal, in this demand of death or freedom.

_Are you, Are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where the dead man called out for his love to flee  
>Strange things did happen here<br>No stranger would it be_  
><em>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree<em>

He loves me, he wants me to live even though I'd rather die without him. He has told me the one thing that will keep me alive for longer—I need to help the next generation find their voices. I can't let their voices be taken from them—they have to remember.

_Are you, Are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free  
>Strange things did happen here<em>  
><em>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

The words drift into my mind, and I understand. When it's all over, we'll meet again at the tree. It's not the freedom we wanted, but it is freedom. His will come tomorrow, and when it's my time—I will come to him. We will be together at last. But how long will the wait be?

_Are you, Are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.  
>Strange things did happen here,<br>No stranger would it be'**, '**If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

His voice stills and I wonder how long will it be till I can join him in death? We never had the chance to join our lives in marriage, to weave together years and years together. The closest I will get to any of that is to weave a rope around my neck instead of around my finger, and join him when it's time. Maybe it's morbid to think like that—to think of when I die it's kind of a marriage to him. But I believe that, I believe that when I die I'll be with him forever, a commitment. He'll be there waiting for me, and no amount of time will have diminished it. Isn't that what marriage is? A commitment to forever?

His lips touch mine gently, and I press back forcibly into him—struggling against all the chains to meld into him. I feel the heat of his body, the pulse of his heart counting down our time. My body, my heart, has not had enough of him—not yet.

I crave him and to know that this is the last time we'll be together at all—a part of me wants him on that baser level. His lips pull tenderly at mine as I glide my hand under his shirt and over the planes of his muscles. The salty tears we shed run into my mouth, making this whole thing more bittersweet.

His fingers brush over my bruised ribs and beneath my shirt to touch my breasts—even they are covered with scars now. Cristoff's hands trace each new scar and each old to make a map in his mind that will last forever—past tomorrow morning.

I pull harder against the chains, my hands reaching for his pants. My fingers linger on the deep gash on his thigh that's beginning to fester. I want to clean it, to ease the pain he must be feeling from it—but it doesn't matter, not now. His lips are hot on mine and I wonder if it's from passion or fever or both. They trail down my neck and into my shoulder, where he nips at me while he wrangles down my pants.

I can feel his teeth bruising my already bruised skin, and I relish it. It is the pain of loving here at the end of the world, and it will stay after he is gone until it too fades. We don't slow down, we don't stop fighting against the chains that try to keep us from fitting together—they cause us more pain.

But finally, we fit together for the last time as we kneel there. His hips press deep as he holds on to my hips to get closer to me. My hands struggle, battering my wrists until I can get my hands around his side to jerk closer to me—it's worth it when he elicits a moan. Our hearts start racing, and all the pain wells up inside of me. Each memory comes to the surface as we get closer to the edge, and each memory burns like a shooting star across my mind.

The hot vivid feeling of it, searing into my brain as we hold tighter, trying to cease being two for awhile—trying to be one, for one last time.

_I stand there in silence, not knowing what to do or where to go now that I've made plans for tomorrow. What we're doing is risky, we may all die—and even if we don't, I know that at least some of my friends will. They are taking the lead because they believe in me, knowing full well that most of them won't return._

_I don't want to be alone. I don't want to sit in my tent or beneath the stars and wait till the nightmares plague me. I don't want it to be like that. I don't even know what I'm doing until I'm standing in front of his tent._

_I kneel down, and open the flap crawling in. Two heads pop up, Christian and Cristoff's. "What's wrong?" Cristoff asks gently with concern, his hand already on his gun._

_I wanted to talk to him, to let him whisper to me and maybe kiss me a little more. It was all so new to my solitary soul—but as he lay there shirtless, I felt my mouth go dry and my heart pounding in my head._

_Grabbing a hold of Christian's booted foot, I tugged. "Get out," I say urgently. Cristoff starts to move, and I can feel my voice speaking of its own volition. "No, not you…" my words trail off as Christian hurries out of my way._

_The tent flap falls closed like a curtain, and I'm alone with Cristoff. The air is thick. I just can't breathe as he sits there looking at me. "What's wrong?"_

"_Don't," I say as I move close to him. The hands that are steady enough to hold a gun and kill are shaking when they touch his bare chest. My fingers shake still as I slip off my jacket and let it fall to the ground, and then I pull upwards until my shirt is off. "Don't let's wait any longer," my voice is shaking._

_His arms reach up and grab me, pulling me to him and—_

He lets out a cry of pleasure that my tongueless mouth can't echo, but the feeling is the same. We part and pull our clothes back into place as we lay there and he strokes my hair again.

Time creeps on, and though I beg it to slow down, it doesn't. I even hope that the world would end right here and take us both with it, but I'm not that lucky. The morning comes all too swiftly, but we are strong and we do not cry.

Our tears were for each other, in private. He tilts my chin as we hear them coming down the hall, "Head up. Hold on, okay?"

I breath him in deeply, the last time I'll breathe in his living scent as we share a kiss. The same kiss as always—No matter how detrimental to our health—it's our habit to kiss before battle. Goodbye it says, I love you it promises, and may we meet again it hopes.

And this is no different.

Our lips part as they tie his hands behind his back and drag him away, "I love you," he mouths to me.

_I love you too,_ I mouth back.

…

For a long time, I'm left alone with my head resting against the wall before Ambrose comes to take me. "Good morning, Emera."

I don't even open my eyes or respond to him at all. His hand tightens around my arm and he jerks me to my feet, "Ready for the show? We wouldn't want you to miss it." I can feel his hot breath in my face, but I don't open my eyes till I'm turned away from him.

I'm led out to the edge of the town, not far from Ambrose's new home. "I picked the place, so that I could look out there everyday and remember how he died." I keep my body stiff, my emotions in check as they force me to stand there.

They take Cristoff over to the tall, branching tree—the ones from which they hung my grandmother and father. It's the same tree, I swung on as a child. I watch them tie the rope, and knot the noose around his neck as he sits on the horse. Our eyes meet, and he's okay. I can tell that by the proud lift of his head.

The whole district is watching, waiting. There are some sobbing and crying because they know us and they hate this. But we two, we are impassive.

"Any last words to say to Cristoff, Emera?" Ambrose laughs, "That's right…you have no words left." He turns back to Cristoff, "Any words left for you?"

I see Cristoff's face spread into a grin, "Yeah, I was just wondering how long it's going to take you to find Jackson's body. He believed you'd find him, I told him you wouldn't bother looking. At the end, he knew I was right." I see Ambrose's face turn scarlet, his hand raised about to drop to tell them to hang him, but Cristoff has the last word. "Give him hell, Emera."

And like that, the horse is gone. He hangs there for a moment, but it's clear it was instant. He is free at last—almost painless if it wasn't painless. His face is peaceful, and I know that it will be a long time till I can join him. But he is safe now, and I have a promise to keep.


	31. Epilogue: Unfinished Bussiness

**__I can't believe this story has come to it's end. Today is probably the best day for it too. Today, I'm having a Mockingjay day-the kind where it's bad and you have to count all the good things in your head. You have to remember there is hope for the future, and well this chapter kind of gives us a little hope. It sets the stage for something that doesn't happen for seventy-five years. It's a long time to hope.**

**But anyways, this chapter was probably one of the earliest written and there was only one revision done other than typos. It was to add in a part or two that were missing. So this is it, this is "the end" but it's also a beginning.**

**There will be a prequel, Districts of Rebellion at some point. It's looking like it'll debut sometime next year. It'll cover the two years that pass between the Prolouge and the first chapter. But this is also setting the stage for another story I will be writing, probably next year. Details at the end of chapter.**

**I wrote this to reveal a strong fighter. I didn't even ask that you like Emera only that you understand her. Good people have to do bad things sometimes, and bad people do good things sometimes. We're inexplicably human and she'll always be close to my heart because as flawed as she is, I love her for those flaws. I love her for showing the imperfections of human nature, I wanted to tell a real war story without glossing it over with any amount of glory or amazingness. It's gritty and dirty, and if you felt anything short of that I've failed.**

**_Forget me not my dear, my darling_**  
><strong><em>Forget me not my love<em>**  
><strong><em>I'm coming home real soon<em>**  
><strong><em>Please leave a light on for me<em>**

**_Forget me Not, The Civil Wars_**

I don't fall in love again. It's not my way. My heart won't ever forget Cristoff and it can never replace him. I don't condemn those who do or think that their love is any less than mine—that's not my way either. I watch as others learn to love or in some cases love again. I watch as Amelia and her new husband expand their family—three young boys. I'm glad she's happy, she deserves it and I know Alaric would want her happy to.

Time goes on. Since the second reaping I've found a way to communicate. It's not as effective as talking, but it has to do. Although, I'm the first of my kind—what they call an Avox—I am not the last. By the time the third games rolls around, there's a whole new breed of servants in the Capitol. They are nearly all Avoxs punished for their crimes against the Capitol.

Another year, I watch my tributes fail. It's to be expected. Since our little rebellion, food has been harder to come by and the need for tessarae rations even greater. We thought we knew hunger before, but it was nothing like what we were experiencing now. I watched as people starved in the streets now, powerless to help them. Before we'd had enough food to keep us alive, even if it wasn't much. Things were never this bad before, and I wonder if our rebellion only made it worse. So in short, my tributes don't stand a chance. The slight edge our children had of working in the mines is even taken from them. The extra pay is taken away, and the children banned from entering the mines to work until after their eighteenth reaping. There's not much affect now, but in a few years our kids won't be as skilled as they are now. No hunting, no food, no work and less wages. All punishment because of what I orchestrated.

I have no friends now. Acquaintances, people who respect me. But all my friends are pretty much dead or smart enough not to appear friendly to me. I catch odd glimpses of people I once knew. I sequester myself in my house most of the time. I've realized it could take years before I even get a winner to my district, so I decide to write down a true history of the rebellion so that even if I die someone can find it and know.

I write about how it started. I write about why there became Districts and Panem, and then I write about all the missions I was on or knew about. I write about the day I heard about District 13. I write about the games, very shortly and in not much detail. It's not important to document every minute of that, but to let someone in the future know the horror of it and how the Capitol planned to turn us against each other. Then I tell about how well it worked. Every day when I'm done, I put it in the bottom stair where I've made a hollowed out place.

It isn't until another failed year of bringing back another tribute that I risk sneaking outside of the fence. I'm still strong, though damaged. It takes a lot of doing before I can get over the fence. I don't plan on running though—there's no point in that. I circle around and I find the log that I use to meet at with the other hunters. My breath catches and I'm nervous. I have lived three years without knowing, just hoping and wishing that they made it away and that there was the sign to show they were out there and safe even if they were alone. I'm careful as I look inside the log, prepared for snakes or whatever else, but not prepared for what I found.

My hand closes over the gold pin. It's a mockingjay, wing tips connecting it to a circle. I have to sit down as I stare at it. This is the sign that means there is a district thirteen out there. I hold on to it tightly realizing that Alexia and Jackson are safe in thirteen. Safe. Alive and safe.

My heart feels lighter as I make my way back. I document my discovery in the book, and I start to write the names of each tribute that I send away. Because someone needs to remember them.

….

Years pass. I have still brought no one home. It gets harder to stay hopeful. The district struggles now just as much as before. It is the eleventh year of the games and I'm not prepared for it. A girl is called, the daughter of Victoria, my best friend that I killed in my game. She's got her mother's eyes but dark black hair. I watch as the grown man crumbles to the ground as she's taken away. But in the arena, she does well. She works together with two of what they call the "career" tributes. They fight together until one by one they all perish. The boy dies in her arms before she hunts down the last tribute. I choke trying not to cry when they crown Mags as the winner.

When she comes back, I want to see her. I doubt she remembers me and if she does, she probably hates me. But she is Victoria's daughter and instead of hating me, she screams my name and runs into my arms telling me she loves me and she's missed me. I don't know what I've done to deserve her love still.

…

It's the year of the fourty-seventh games when I see the ghost. I clutch at my heart, thinking that I'm about to die. He's walking towards me—Alaric and I have to hold on to the rail to stop myself from sinking to the ground. Ghosts are one of the things I've learned you can't live with.

The words slip eerily into my mind, that spread like wildfire when someone had overheard it:

_Are you, Are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where they strung up a man they say murdered three  
>Strange things did happen here<br>No stranger would it be  
>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree<em>

When he walks past, I see his mother walk over to greet him and his grandmother. She turns her head, and our eyes lock. It's Amelia. She looks directly in my eyes, not flinching before she turns away and leads her grandson away. That's when I put it together. Her and Sven's first child wasn't her and Sven's at all—it must have been Alaric and this bright strapping teenager was Alaric and Amelia's grandson. He was the spitting image of Alaric at that age. I don't blame her for keeping such a secret—to keep him out of the Games.

I go about my task though. I've grown old, and I'm not sure how much more time I'll have left so I take the Mockingjay pin in hand and go to the sweet shop in town. There's a young blonde girl sitting there playing cards with her twin. She smiles at me politely and asks if she can help me as she puts her cards down.

I hand her the sheet of paper I have. It's become a habit of mine to write down the things I want before I leave my house then I hand the paper over when I get to where I'm going. She looks at the paper and asks me to hold on a minute. A few minutes later, she brings back a candied apple and bar of chocolate.

I hand the pin over to her as payment. She looks at it with wide eyes as she pushes the hair back behind her ears. "It's too much, Ms. Dayton."

I shake my head, but she insists again that it's too much and gets her father. He talks with me, but I'm insistent. I had no one left to give it to, so I decided to trade it this way. The father thanked me kindly and said it was too much, I motioned at the girl. Finally, it was understood that she was to have it and he finally consented telling me to come by for anything I wanted. I never did. My sole purpose was to pass it on to someone who would take care of it—someone who would remember what it was. And as I left and I heard the girl say in a low voice. "Isn't this a mockingjay daddy?" I knew I had made the right decision.

…

When the fiftieth games rolls around, they've decided that four tributes from our district must go. The first girl who's called is so frail and tiny that I know she wont' last long. The second girl I recognize as soon as I see her, on her chest is the mockingjay pin. Her name is Maysilee Donner. She doesn't cry, but lifts her head proudly and defiantly. Yes, I did right to give her the pin and I think, she might just have a chance. A boy is called, a sickly weak thing with a nagging cough. It's not right to send him, but I guess it's better than someone healthier. But when they call the next name, I realize that I know him too. It's Amelia's, who died two years ago, grandson—her and Alaric. I find out that his name is Haymitch Abernathy.

As he saunters up to the stage, my one hundredth tribute I've mentored I realize that I know exactly who's going to come home. He looks so much like Alaric when he turns to me that I feel my heart almost stop beating. The words are so eerily close to what Alaric said to me, "Bring us home, sweetheart."

…

It's hard to watch her die, and harder still for him. But he fights, and I think he's going to die in the arena just like his grandfather. But then he does something unexpected, he ducks the weapon thrown at him and uses the arena itself as a weapon against his opponent. And I'm afraid for what he's done, that act of rebellion will cost him. But he's coming home, I couldn't bring Alaric home before but I have brought home his grandson.

I sit up at the Capitol with him for weeks as he heals. He was very close to death, his insides falling out of him at the end. He makes it through his interview not saying very much like normal. He's dark and brooding, not like Alaric at all.

Soon we're allowed to go home and we're not prepared. News comes of his brother and mother's death. Half frantic, he runs to find her—the girl he loves Abbie. I hurry as fast as my old body can take me, but when I arrive he's standing on a chair cutting her down. But it's no use, she's been hanging there for awhile. Her skin is icy as he holds her to him sobbing, and I console him the best I can. She's buried the next day.

He has no one left, but me and the sex trade ring that's popped up has no power over him. He stays in my house with me, not wanting to be alone. He's mad, ready to seek revenge but I calm him. That's when I show him the book that I've kept secret. I let him read it, let him know about everything. He reads it and reread it over the next year, I drill it into his head that we have to wait that there is a district thirteen just as I've alerted some of the other victors over the years that I could trust. All we have to do is wait for the right moment and then we can stage another rebellion. He doesn't want to wait though, but he does. I let him know how long I've waited for mine.

I show him how to mentor the next year and he does well. Nothing we could have done would have brought home our tributes that year. We go home, and we wait. The time comes and I bid him goodbye as I pick up my small bag. He begs me not to go that he's not sure what he'll do without me. But I kiss his forehead goodbye and pick up my bag and note and leave.

It's not long before I get to his house. I don't bother knocking. I know he's alone. I open the door and move swiftly through the house. He's sitting there in the living room, watching television when I come in. He's sick—just a bad cold, a cold I've waited for him to have.

He looks up at me dismissively, "It's you." I hand Head Peacekeeper Ambrose the folded paper as I open my bag. He has just enough time to read it, to see the words spelled out for him. He reads it out loud, trying to put it together, _I'm here to keep my promise_. His eyes look up at me, and he's not ready.

I've waited years to have my revenge. I don't know how much time I'll have. But I needn't to have worried. I'm still much stronger than him, stronger even then I hoped for. But I have dreamed about this day for nearly fifty years. I make him an Avox like me. I watch as he sputters and cries in pain trying to say words that don't come—that he's incapable of uttering.

I never thought myself one capable of torture, but I was wrong. Years of being beaten, years of the horror I endured made it much easier to do this to him. He cannot scream, and perhaps that's what let me continue on unashamed.

When it's over, I hobble back outside into the cool evening air. I walk uninterrupted to the edge of town not far away, where there resides the old Hanging Tree. I place my hand on the bark and ease myself to the ground below it exhaustedly. I know what this will mean for me. It's why I've waited all these years. I wanted a victor to leave our district in the hands of. I know it's not right to leave Haymitch alone like that, but I'd rather go out like this. I'd rather keep my promise and make the man who killed my Cristoff pay. He robbed me of love, of happiness, of a family, of my speech. He took my future and so I took his. I lay the knife over my bloodstained lap and reach into the bag. I remove the small container and open it. I look at the three dark berries there and place them in my palm. Nightlock.

I can almost hear his voice again, I think if I just turn my head he'll be right there singing like always:

_Are you, Are you  
>Coming to the tree<br>Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free  
>Strange things did happen here<em>  
><em>No stranger would it be<br>If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree._

I pop them in my mouth as I lean back against the tree. My teeth break the delicate skin of the berries as my mind conjures up Cristoff's face, undimmed and undiminished by the years. It's still just that easy to remember him after all this time. I open my eyes as I start to feel the effects, because I know that Cristoff will be there welcoming me home.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for sticking with me! <strong>

**2013-Districts of Rebellion**

**2013- Empty Bottle, Empty Heart or Born a Rebel (focusing on the next victor from here...with throwbacks to this story).**


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